3 December 1916

Dear… (are you still there?),

I keep hoping that these messages will reach you. How wrong is it for one to feel joy when everything around one is disintegrating? I do hear the news – sometimes it literally flies above my head! Sometimes its flawless echo reaches my ears!

On a break from the work, I had a glass of wine and ate some cheese. Wild berries that I had picked. It felt so good I didn’t dare say it out loud. Because everything in a bigger scale is so wrong and guilt for happiness crushed all feelings.

I neglected a fresco on purpose, watched it crumble and lose its color, till it slipped away into something unrecognizable. It is doubtless un-repairable now and the rest of the composition looks on, wondering whether their fate too will follow this slow disintegration.

This is why I haven’t written – accept this excuse. I’ll describe the fresco next time. You need to have an idea of it.

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