Marching to Valhalla [antikvár]

MM Uf« I am as compelled to write as I am to take breath. There is so much in my heart—anger and the deepest pain and love for so many things. Yet it all remains unspoken because emotionally I am mute. I have been as a muzzled dog all my life. But I can write. I feel I can write all the way through till mom-ing, stopping only at the waking of camp. There is something afoot in me tonight that tells me I am finally writing with my true heart. Not a chatty letter, nor a calculated article, nor a carefully worded report. The constant compulsion to write is now wedded to an im-