Shall Not Sleep [bxb]

My Dear Max

My dear Max,

Something extraordinary has just happened—if it indeed really happened and I have not merely imagined it.

I received your letter as I was about to fall asleep (thank God for you; I don't know what I would have done had you not written so sweetly). Of course, I read it the instant I could open the envelope, and as I read I felt absorbed in you. I wanted nothing more than to be with you—and when I looked up, I was no longer in the bunker.

I was in a room unlike any other that I have seen. Square, white-walled, and filled with the strangest contraptions imaginable. There were novels bound with soft, bendable covers with photographs on them; I recognized Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, but the others were alien to me. I was sitting on a bed. There were articles of clothing all over the floor, and even more spilling out of strange coloured bins. I was too paralyzed to move or explore, beyond touching the things nearest me. I believe I was there a few minutes, but soon, in the blink of an eye, I returned to my mud-caked bunker as if nothing had happened.

But I'm sure it did happen. I'm sure I really was in that strange room. And I believe—God strike me down, it sounds like utter lunacy—that it was your bedroom. One of the few things I did manage to see was one of my own letters on the nightstand.

Please, Max, tell me I am right. Tell me I really was there. And above all, tell me more. I am torn between my desires for both ignorance and omniscience. Tell me something about the future. Tell me just one thing, perhaps about the clothing. I caught glimpses of strange patterns and fasteners—two lines of interlocking metal teeth. What a strange concept. No, no, clothing is too trivial. Tell me the outcome of this war. Tell me who wins. What happens afterwards? Does anything terribly important happen in the twentieth century? Our communication is a gift and I would be a fool not to mine such rare knowledge. It would be extraordinary to know about things before they happen. As well... fighting this war feels frustratingly futile sometimes. Is there a purpose to it all?

So, in summation: tell me more. Please. I am hungry for words from you. Send me pages and pages of words, I don't care what they say. As long as I can see many more words in your funny, scribbled hand I will die happy. I pray for another slip in time that will land me back in your room, my love—perhaps this time with you in it.

Yours everlasting,

Alastair