1873 June 2 - 14 weeks before the lake was frozen over and snowing. These three-thirty-seen hours were spent on one number of the only thing that I had to say: I was not to receive it or receive anything else but a letter from the person concerned. It would be sent to me by mail with a note saying: "Please send this to Mr. John Smith, who will forward it to you." The fact is that no one could know what I meant until I wrote down my own thoughts on paper and read them aloud. So here we are again, sitting around the fire in our little cabin, waiting for something that may never come. And yet, somehow, I feel as if everything is going to turn out alright after all. Maybe because deep down inside me there's still hope left somewhere.