R wrote Delahaye about all that had happened to him and about what he, R, wanted: My friend, You're eating white flour and mud in your pigsty. I don't miss Charleville. I don't miss being a bored pig where the sun dries up all brains but sloth. Your brains or feelings're being dried up: dead pig Delahaye. Emotions are the movers of this world. Me: I'm thirsty. What I'm thirsty for--whom I'm thirsty for--I can't get so I drink poisons. I've got to free myself. From what? Pain? Oh--for more poisons. Maybe more poisons'll come and I'll go so far, I'll emerge. Something is trying to emerge from this mess. I don't know how.