Layong in this bed, on a summer's night in the cottage, feeling outside with the shelter of inside. Hearing how things have changed from silence to activity - knowing the crickets and grasshoppers have now become aggressive. There are only a few hours left. Each night is like a death because each day may become one. They starve for meaning now. What is this all worth if not for tonight, if we won't have tonight our who lives may be worth nothing. They know this every night and so I envy them. We forget this.
Written in the calm of night but with.a tired heart. No patience. What will I write in the day? No patience needed. See you soon.
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