Again. In dreams [les rêves] - even then it is unrelenting, because I had thought you knew the lines I was reading; and again today. It is disheartening to see what you once thought were 'inexplicables' now so reduced in self-loathe, lost in translation from nerve endings to manufactured speech, so unnecessary, so limberly portrayed, so... trivial.
(Last night, speaking to someone my mother thinks can help (with what?) -)
On distance: ever present, ever engaging but lately reacting to my exponential panic and most of all, the abject condition of the fear. A childish game not even worth mentioning, courage recedes and here is the question: what am I, who am I to own good fortunes as a passing stranger as you make your way through Syracuse or trailing death in Pompeii?