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I can’t listen both to the terrible inner voices and to you simultaneously, but I can listen to what the voices are saying and confide this in you, trusting you like no other person in the world.” You are standing fast by a tree, young, beautiful, your eyes are subduing the sorrows of the world with their brightness. I can’t think of anything to write, I’m just walking around here between the lines, underneath the light of your eyes, in the breath of your mouth like in some beautiful happy day, which stays beautiful and happy even if my head is sick, tired, and if I have to leave Monday via Munich.F” “It’s so wonderful to have received your letter, to have to answer it with my sleepless brain. Isn’t one letter enough, isn’t one knowing enough? Of course it is, but nevertheless I am tilting my head way back, drinking the letters, aware only that I don’t want to stop drinking. But this passion for letters is senseless. “What do you think? Can I still get a letter by Sunday? It should be possible. “Good heavens, Milena, if you were here, and my pitiful, unthinking mind! And still I would be lying if I said I missed you: it’s the most perfect, most painful magic, you are here, just as I am and even more so wherever I am, there you are too, and even more intensely.”