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Dearest Flora - Something has been telling me most insistently that I want to write to you. I have argued, disputed - even lied to the extent of saying that I could find no paper - but to no avail. I am in a morbid state of mind. It's late & I am sitting in a barely furnished room with a meagre candle. It's useless. I don't want to write yet here it is! Where are you, what are you doing etc? I have almost reached my longed for state of oblivion. I've forgotten everything & everybody. In fact have forgotten myself several times already - strange, isn't it? I've decided that I'm either slowly dying or else that I'm settling down - whichever it is - it's awful. We're in the house & have been for a week now but I've never worked so hard, nor have I ever seen such an unholy mess. I'm still optimistic however & hope some day to get straightened out. In the meantime I've nearly married the painter who is charming & seranades me beneath my window, whistling anything from "The little old red shawl" to the latest "popular" air. His only fault seems to be a mania for stealing - & but for the fact
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