Paris, 3 de April de 1973
Marie,
meeting you the other day was nice; a surprise for a day that until then was going accordingly to plan. I have those:plans. And as comforting as they might be, they don’t warm the lonely nights.
Papers on the wall describing the days to come, fragmented in years, months, hours, that mend together until all that there is, is a cacophony of things to do.
I read all that I've written to you and pause: do I seem anxious, nervous, God-forbid, desperate? I don’t know. I am not sure I care to know either.
I found myself watching the moments of our conversations and realized, perhaps a bit surprised, that I didn’t rewrite any of my dialogue with you. I felt a strange sense of accomplishment over this, as if, for the first time ever, I accept myself for who I am.
And that feeling made me wanna meet you again.
