Thursday, about five.
I am in Buenos Aires, I shall see you tonight, I shall see you tomorrow, I know we shall be happy together (happy and drifting an sometimes speechless and most gloriously silly), and already I feel the bodily pang of being separated from you, turn asunder from you, by rivers, by cities, by tufts of grass, by circumstances, by days and nights.
These are, I promise, the last lines I shall allow myself in this strain; I shall abound no longer in self—pity. Dear love, I love you; I wish you all happiness; a vast and complex and closewoven future of happiness lies ahead of us. I am writing like some horrible prose poet; I dont dare to reread this regrettable postcard. Estela, Estela Canto, when you read this I shall be finishing the story I promised you, the first of a long series. Yours,
Georgie.
Orgullosamente hospedado por Forget Norway