She knows what space is like, because she lacks it right now. Between the boxes and filing cabinets and couches and animals scrambling beneath her feet, she needs space but space is still forthcoming. She’s squashed and when this claustrophobic feeling first came upon her that’s about when the words stopped flowing. They dried up and hardened in the back of her throat. So nothing legible can be written, the ink has clumped and hardened.