8/31 JP

My ink has run out. Forgive the scratchiness of my writing.

Even so, Elma, I didn't end up like this because I fell into despair over music, or because I turned my back on life. A novel without an ending would not be satisfying. A story that keeps dragging on and on out of force of habit would not be beautiful. That must be true of life as well. If I'm going to write the conclusion of my own story, music alone can convey it. For that reason alone I wrote down the things I saw on this journey, the things I felt, as lyrics and music.

The lyrics and songs contained in this box are a single work of art that represents me.

Put another way, these compositions are my life itself. Elma - there's no one but you that I can give this to.

I don't know what will happen to this box of letters. I pray that before too long, some kind person will see it, and the attached note with your address, and send it to you for me.

I'm out of paper now, too. Lately I've been thinking a lot about those days. My yearning to be a pianist, how I wanted to become an author, how I started writing songs when I simply wasn't able to give up on my aspirations towards music.

My life up to this moment has been a series of compromises. I really, truly lived my life compromising on everything.

I can say this only now, but back then,.¹ When I had given up on music then, I only started writing songs again because I read your lyrics, Elma. You rarely ever showed them to me, but in that moment, within your lyrics, I saw moonlight.

That infallible light that illuminates only the night.²

So thin and radiant, it's almost impossible to believe it's the pale moonlight