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I read what I wrote in the last page and I'm  disgusted to see how gray and silly and quiet it's what I put down, like the conversation and sound of a deaf mute who learned how to talk at the school for deaf mutes. Why? Mystery. That happens with all I do, I feel inside a lot of energetic and fast feelings and I just go ahead on a way as cool as possible. Most of the time it helps because like a poor man won't be worried big taxes concerning the rich, I'm not worried about what I did or said because I didn't say or do. But I'd sure like to see a time when I'd forget all about the details.
Let's now go ahead the way I'm used to. Here I'm in the room, glad to have roommates busy the whole day  in places so [[strikethrough]] they [[/strikethrough]] I'm alone and can work. I told you I sent about 30-40 drawings, part for the New Yorker, part for "Life" (something about China, almost like a war correspondent in drawings I sent today the last 3 pieces where I make a paralel betwen past wars all fought in beautiful red blue and gold uniforms or armors, helmets etc and this war in which an artist who paints a battlefield should be a specialist in landscape, leaves, branches, vegetation (because of the camouflage) I call