To my child,

  I haven't been able to write for days. The moisture is in every piece of cloth, my charcoal pen, my wood strips, simply everything. When I tried to write I got nothing but some moist smears on the wood.

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  Meditation is giving me a headache. Or maybe I'm just catching a cold? A fire would be wonderful. Or some tea. The wood they gave me is to o wet to burn.

  I hope you're in a nice, warm room.

  I wish I could have held you in my arms.

  In love,

  your mother