There simply was nothing more I wanted to write. I placed a period at the end of the last sentence. No lightning struck the building; there was not even a storm. Nor were there hallelujahs from Morningside Heights. There was only silence, except within myself. I was thankful. To whom? To what? I stared at that last, nigger-black period and felt a great upsurge, warm, good, thick. I never felt that way again when I finished a book.