Again, I am sorry. I appear to do nothing these days but annoy. I don't mean to, you understand, I just grow tired.
The boys grow so fast and these letters take so long to get from one place to the other . . . it becomes difficult to know what to write, especially as the messages die almost as soon as they're in the envelope. Is this true? I seem to write to you what I feel and then stop feeling it. My dreams and my thoughts are always just moments, Antonio, moments we cannot capture in the letter. I suppose that is why it alarms me (and humiliates me) that you could be so curt. I tell you how I feel, Antonio . . . what else is there?
I'm sorry, I recognize your life is difficult enough and that you cannot worry about my feelings and inordinate sensitivity while you wait in jail, but neither can I cease to feel because it is inconvenient to you. I must do as must be done.
When I think of such things I become tired and must lie down . . . I lie down on a palate or on my bed. Sometimes the boys crawl up onto the bed with me, one on either side. I can hear them speaking to me, humming almost, but can't make any of the words out. It's as if they're floating next to me, as if I myself am floating. My thoughts become diffuse and strange, my fears acute and my brain like something very cold. At least me head ceases to ache. There is so much to do and time stretches out in either direction as if a string pulled from the spool had been cut in the middle and not cut, as if the sweater fell after the thorn.
I do not mean to tire you, Antonio; only one of us can be tired. Please write soon.
There are no more photos.
Much love,
Guilia
