human
There is green on the trees and the joy of springtime, but there is nothing in my heart but despair. When is this nightmare to end? When you were in Margaret Street I could picture you. I was a part of it all. Now it is chaos. Letters from Mexico City, from Orizaba and Cuernavaca, and the devil knows where, tell me that you are surrounded by beauty,--the beauty of living things. Colour you say is the consciousness of nature. Only the consciousness of desolation and despair is mine.