I I have opened my window to let my room breathe as I lie in bed to write you this. You called this afternoon because you were upset. Things were not as good for you as when you are around me. And I could sympathize. Poor dear. I miss you, too. II The fire is in the place. After a good dinner, oriental music, Koto, Sitar. But I have had a fever, and I am bored with reading. I hate the world of noone to take my temperature and tell me stories.
30 May 1982