28 October 1916
I know I said I would write tomorrow. And in a way, today is tomorrow. Of yet another day. I could also pretend your letter did not reach me till yesterday, or that I posted this some months ago and be sure it would take some months exactly to reach you. Some months and a couple of days. Lies. In the meantime, work has begun in the old convent and I am personally supervising the restoration of a fresco. I’m a self-taught fresco painter. The angels smile at me, and those that seemed wrathful I have changed to cheerful. Because I can. You know I don’t believe.
They have won, though, as I’ve stayed and not left, and I’ve started appreciating the overcast days when the moss-covered walls of… I will do something about those walls, too. I just don’t know when I’ll start.
More soon, I believe. Be well, if you can.