Shall Not Sleep [bxb]

Dear Max

Dear Max,

I feel redundant. Every single letter I write you, I tell you how odd I find you. I now ask you to take those feelings as a requisite—that I always find you strange and funny and wonderful—and that way I can stop boring you by repeating all that at the beginning of each letter.

How I wish letters could be sent instantly! The wait for your correspondence is almost impossible. The days they are delivered feel so bright, but the next day is torture because I know it will be weeks before I receive another. The post is so unreliable at the front. I live in fear of letters being lost or destroyed along the way. Of course, I live in fear of many other things, not the least of which being my feet rotting and falling off. I have been living in the same mud-caked boots for God knows how long. I am constantly wet and dirty and, quite frankly, not fit to be seen, let alone smelled. This whole trench is a pit of the worst stench imaginable. Unwashed bodies and the reek of death. Never in my wildest dreams could I ever guess I would grow used to the smell of blood and fallen comrades.

I am sorry if it distresses you to hear it, but judging by your confessed hatred of war in your last letter, I'm hoping you have strong enough sensibilities to hear the truth of this place. It is terrible. It is despicable. And—I can scarcely allow myself to write it, as it could mean my life—it is not worth it. I've seen too many lives snuffed out here that did not deserve to end, and as you say about your (horrid) father, too many lives celebrated that are not half as noble as they pretend to be.

Speaking of your father, I know of no armed conflict in Afghanistan. If you can tell me, what is he doing there?

Please tell me more about yourself. You can tell me anything. I will not judge. I will not stop writing. Right now, this is what I live for.

Sincerely,

Alastair

PS—what, pray tell, is "TV"?

PPS—where are you from?

PPPS—is Max short for Maximilian?