Dearest H--,
I am unencumbered by happenstance. The scabs on my arms are starting to itch. The skin has faded there, at least the color has died down and I know the scar tissue will begin to rise. It's hard to not peel back in places and see the body doing its mending. I'm looked at with pity here and I hate the eyes of people.
Your last letter had an air of desperation to it. I can count the numberless ticks that crowd my roomate and part of this relates to your telephone experience--the people in the center of this country are desperate for entertainment. I don't care if I sound like a general sweeper. This is something that you should not be concerned with. Wash your windows, keep your books, dance with someone if the mood strikes you. At any cost, however, do not rely on the kindness of any disembodied head to draw you closer to understanding the human nature of noise. And keep your mouth shut for the sake of the good lord Jesus or you run the risk of having your mouth misused.
I am always thinking about the countryside, even when I'm in it--especially then. I hope your days move and you move within them.
Faithfully,
B--
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