actually i don't think i have a book inside me, i think when dad said that i felt uncomfortable and distressed, i said no, i don't, maybe a few words, at most a poem, and that's what you thought about yourself perhaps but don't put it in me, dad, it doesn't fit. dad said he started a novel and then in pursuit of capital which for the sake of the story he called children he put aside in the trash and my brother in the drawer, what a story! and later admitted he lied and at his death said he wrote 20,000 words like it was a massive investment that we would reap on his death, that too disappeared, so when  herr k. said the same thing that's why i had the panic attack, and the vicious treadmill mister was put through was the psychic break. phew-wee!
and i told k. who also talks from out of his own particular fix, i have this diary, which is a book of life i have diligently written for all these years, going back to when the old man was still walking the earth looking for a place to lay his weary soul down.