My involvement over here, folks. Grateful for your reading.

Prague, 23 December 1994

Dear silent friend

It's other hands writing to you today. Maybe you could feel that my strokes are lighter and rounder. I have given myself the strength to open you up and see everything inside you. What you have carried inside so far I know has made you heavier, but it has also made you a chest full of great treasures. For a long time you have collected words and feelings that have made noise in an old heart.
Through you I see the days I was not there and they needed me, when the birds were the only visible company. You and the birds. In your lines I feel the tiredness of a body that was bending and a lucidity that was being lost. True: there is much light in you, but there are also abysses, gaps, darkness. The letters outside the stripes, the studs, the blotchy blur on the page speak of a few final days and wet eyelids that make me write to you quickly so I don't stumble over the same tears.
The owner of your pages is gone one day, the boy he saw so much came to get him and took him away while he was sleeping. He sewed his eyes and mouth shut, and like a bird, he took him to the sky. I know you keep his formulas. We won't talk about that. Only to you could he leave the most precious of his treasures: knowledge. Now I see clearly the influence of nature on him, the desperation of his keenness and will.
I wante to open up and write to you today on Christmas Eve to tell you that you have not betrayed anyone, that you are still keeping his secret, that you are still a silent friend. For my part, I will seal you and keep you, you will become his memory. Whoever comes to read to you will find him. My father is not dead, he has left his soul in you.

Forever and ever, your daughter