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168 [[strikethrough]] Saturday, June 16, 1928 [[/strikethrough]] July 17th - July 23 (Wed.) The End. July 23 are perfect. There is much [[?Platuseque]] in the interior, while the exterior is Early Spanish architecture, very much like late Gothic. The head of a Moor, supposedly, hangs horribly from the organ... The cloisters are beautiful, and in the cloister gardens are geese.... No mail from Bob..... I can't believe he hasn't written, but I wonder what has happened. I want a letter so very, very much! Last evening (the 23rd) we went to a Pelota game. The game is fast and exciting. The men have the marvelous combination of strength and grace. It was thrilling. July 24 This morning to Madrid by plane. The plane, a tri-motor, was information – no plush, no paper-bags, the pilot in civilian clothes. Mount Serrat looked impressive and gaunt rising [[?bravely]] from [[strikethrough]] of [[/strikethrough]] the plain – a fitting place for the Grail..... On into billowly waves of clouds – and finally down under them – and getting lost. Spain is arid, and tan. In some places there is a lovely pink, red, and orange combination of fields – lit by an occasional rectangle of brilliant grasses. Four hours in the air – landing. Madrid is disappointingly dead. The museum was closed. To-morrow to Toledo – and sightseeing. Oh, why, why didn't we stay at Palma? Letters from Bob. He is happy again – and he does 169 Sunday, June 17, 1928 love me, but I want to see him. Letters from weeks back are so unsatisfactory. Two lovely letters from Reed – poems – in which he says it is really the end. I wonder. Somehow I think I will see him again – it can't happen that I won't! POST MORTEM Oui, "partir, c'est [[?mount]] un peu" And it's all done, my friend – All vanished as the days that were – Our parting was an end Of something not complete - And dead Our futille incident – Down the long road – Now – So far away I wonder why – and how I didn't say the thousand things I could have said the thousand things I want.
