Hookworth, Bree-Land, 24th June
Dear Ravondir
This is of course no letter, and you will not read it. But I find that if I set pen to paper as though to write a diary then no words come; if I think that I am speaking to you, then all pours forth upon the page. I wish that I could unburden myself to you, as I always used in the past; but I know that you would despise me for the things I have done. This letter will not be sent, but will sit in my chest beside the others that I have written to you.
