" Oh, he is dead!" my mind cried out. Novna, my dear, I am writing this as a release for my conscience. Those things which trouble me are not such as one exchanges with vigil companions, or indeed with anyone not bound by ties like ours. If I were at home with you I would exchange with your soul in a moment the feeling of my own, but distance permits no such consolation and it is not suitable for me to exchange so familiarly with my colleagues. I find myself questioning the value of our customar