Enjolras rests his head in his hands, and regards the blank paper in front of him with irritation. Two hours he's been sitting here, with nothing to show for it but an introductory line and a great deal of aimless scribbles in the margins. The written word baffles him. Give him an attentive ear, a moment of silence, and he could say all that he has to say, concisely, eloquently; but, restricted to the confines of an empty page, he finds himself maddeningly mute.

But this is the way it has to be, because words spoken can be lost, repeated amiss, distorted. There is nothing for it but to commit himself to paper, frail messenger though it is.