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Dear Brother -

    Have been ill for several days - one of those absurd illnesses that come after too prolonged and too intensive work. For a time life does not go on. One is a [tree?] - no - not even that. At such times all those you love might die, a fire burn your house , a horse kick you in the balls - it would make no difference. You blink like an old owl. All your senses are passive. You wait, wait, wait - for the machinery of your imagination to get itself going again.

    You may remember - more than likely you do not - a tale I began a year or two ago - about a