On a clear night, the stars are magnificent—I could say a clear afternoon.

I've sent off two manuscripts to the States, and a third has come from a publisher in Buenos Ares, so it's busy—and rare that I take time for star-gazing.

Winter was especially quiet this year—for people—and especially stormy. I never made it across to Ushuaia to pick up any of the nice little things I know you like. The panty is left to the rice and beans.

I hope you have a good summer down here.

So formal. What do I want? I keep reading.

It would be wonderful to meet you sometime. I don't know—I don't know. And I'm writing this down and then I will leave it hanging. Misha, maybe somewhere on the equator? Maybe I'll visit my brother in San Diego, and you could join us? Maybe I'm dreaming?

They've found a new drug, but it's experimental. I'm not sure I want to go there.

Leave me a new photo, if it isn't too much trouble.

And be well,

Henry.

Now I am trying to remember the letter I left for him in Kirkenes. What did I write?