She found an old note in one of her writing desk's drawers.

I've been watching over the seasons with a dispassionate appetite for salvation - catching glimpses of clarity, of where I stand and what I have to do. But the intermittent sanity is swiftly quelled in the fog of the following day, fleeting footmarks waiting for the next tide. Washed away, their message is lost - leaving me with a burning, fruitless desire to remember. All the young memories are taking flight, Helena. I do not want to forget.

For the first time in this life, I am not completely confident in my ability to overcome a disaster. Confidence is for the young and fool, it seems, a much needed fuel to work the wheels of self delusion. It is true that I am no longer young, but still a fool - with a conscience numbed after many years of ceaseless erring. I pray that you never know what this is like.

It happens when you try to think of everything at once. Avoid it, my dear, lest you fall prey to the plague of cynicism. Weariness edges in, and the colors begin to fade. You start making clever, bitter remarks on the contradictions in other people’s behaviours, forgetting that they are only human – thus having no choice but to blunder and mismanage. Finally, you are convinced that humanity is helplessly reduced to a sad horde of bunglers. At that point, your stars are stolen.

I seek relief from that infirmity. I have to believe that it is possible to Believe again. And with every small belief regained, I will drag myself from this pit of hopelessness and desolation. For that is the quandary, you see, dear Helena: How can you move on with life after uncovering the myriad lies and fallacies? And yet, how can you not? Life is, after all... compulsory.