she tried to focus on other things , writing for instance ; even went so far as to turn her notebook computer on ; even went so far as to open up the last opening chapter in the word processor ; even went so far as to read the last paragraph again , and again , and again , but here she derailed , letters not connecting into words , or if they did , words not connecting with meanings , intended concepts elusive , the paragraph so much black against so much white , and all she really could think about : warmth and warmth and the need to relieve or quench or blossom it .