"I want to remember the smell of your tears, cause I don’t have my own any longer. Your letter is soaked in them so I can’t decrypt it. But I know it, I read it, sense it, kiss it timidly. Would I ever be able to tell you how today, after the damp earth trenches I, for the first time, dipped into steppe herbs, white-snow bedsheets, that were prepared solicitously by the local French ladies. I barely breathed, sitting on the seashore. It won’t be long, but I try to remember each moment, every scent and sound, every smile and kind word.