I'm not sure what to write. Your letter was extremely saddening to me because I know something is wrong but do not know what to do about it. I also recognize that something is wrong here, with me. I feel as if I am going wrong. I talk much to your sister . . . she is good company, but can offer little advice. I mentioned to her that things seemed strained, strange between us, but she had little to say. So we both float my dear. I think often of the essential injustice of our lives together, the chance we didn't have and won't have. It seems difficult to imagine a time when we weren't afraid. Of course, I don't mean a potential happiness; no, not that. Rather the weight of other things continually bearing down upon us, the shadow of struggle at every turn. I suppose it only seems like this because this last separation is to be so totally final. It was one thing when I'd be away for a time at meetings or with the paper. Now I am away with nothing. I am nothing. My career, my hopes; nothing.
I guess you are not the only one who floats.
It has been three weeks since I have seen anyone but guards and two since I spoke to even them. These men come into my room without reason and pick things up and put them down. They look at my books and sometimes laugh with their friends at me. They will sniff my ink well and tear up my paper (you see why my letters are so short). And I can do nothing but look. When I came here the criminals were surprised: "You cannot be Gramsci; they said he is a giant." Now they know he is not a giant.
I will be better my dear. I am sorry.
Give them all a hug,
Antonio
