Believe me, I cannot escape from our two walks. Like a heavy, beautiful dream; in which I am bewitched.

I know that I'd be consumed in that heat which cannot catch fire. On the paths I'd plant oaks which would endure for centuries; and into their trunks I'd carve the words which I shouted into the air. I don't want them to be lost, I want them to be known.

To no-one, ever, have I spoken these words with such compulsion, so recklessly – and I read in your eyes as well that something united us in that gale-force wind and heat of the sun. Perhaps something was fated to give up both unutterable pleasure? Never in my life have I experienced such an intermingling of myself with you. We walked along not even close to one another and yet there was no gap between us. I was just your shadow, for me to be there it needed you. I'd have wished that walk to be without end; I waited without tiring for the words which you whispered; what would I have done were you my wife? Well, I think of you as if you were my wife. It's a small thing just to think like that, and yet it's as if the rays of a hundred suns were overwhelming me. I think this to myself and I won't stop thinking it.

Do with this letter, this confession of mine, what you will. Burn it, or don't burn it. It brings me alive. Even thoughts become flesh.

Keep well.