Dispatches #10: True Love — The True Life

How I can tell to you, how much I love my beloved Fanta? Without it, my world does not do, would not exist. Its gentle contact. Its sweet voice. Its kind understanding. When I come home after firm day on work its sweet tenderness wipes away cares and difficulty of day. It—light of my day. She—queen of my night. Its eyes study mine and there is no need for words. We speak in unexpressed language, each other, smoothly. Regardless the facts that happen up there in daylight, above the ground, in the hidey hole to each other, we create our own world which never can be separated by anybody. Ever.

Dispatches #9: Messages — No Words

Within many days it has much rain. Water overflows streets. Bodies navigate to top. Water kills still more who alive. Sirens, sounds which I have not heard in years, go with irresolute groaning everywhere in city. (My father has told to me they powered by the sun and need no man for working but how can this be?) Within these many days my beloved Fanta and I are in the basement, observing as water drops, then pours, downwards the rough walls. We should not remain here but where we should go? Sirens moan as in death, as tortured dogs. We hear beating lorries as they roar downwards streets.

Dispatches #8: Bright & Light

Tomorrow I shall travel around city to see that happens. Things become more and more strange. We hide in rubble and we notice—we observe—what that happens. Men in white plastic with clear helmets walk slowly downwards streets on a wide line. On the West at night ardently colored fires which shine almost similarly to the sun of day. Things become indistinct, movement from side to adjoining side, then make themselves in almost same place. Less and less city dwellers can be found.

Dispatches #7: And Everyone — Where?

Something wrong, even it is more wrong than usually. Today I have gone to the market to sell some things, which I have hidden to receive more stocks, medicine, which my beloved Fanta and me we require. As so on as I have left the house, I could tell that something was mistaken. It was silent. Too silent. Any lorries in distance? Any planes or helicopters? No. But, also, any birds and any dogs or bugs? No. Only the sick breeze which has pushed its way through barren trees was. I know that it is not a lot of people in our city already . . . but it was something new. Different. Not good.

Dispatches #6: Apologize — I Should

Today I can go at last outside again. I am sorry to not write in so long, but things were very much bad even for a place where things always very much bad. I did a picture of a ground floor of a house to show as things look in view of day again. Bombs have started to fall and will not leave. All the day long. All the night long. My beloved Fanta and I have gone to a place under the house and there we have remained. We did not go outside within many days. Weeks. Who can tell for certain?