This Is A Photograph Of

Paper Is More Patient Than Man.

I Haven't Written For A Few Days, Because I Wanted First Of All To Think About My Diary. It's An Odd Idea For Someone Like Me To Keep A Diary; Not Only Because I Have Never Done So Before, But Because It Seems To Me That Neither I-nor For That Matter Anyone Else-will Be Interested In The Unbosomings Of A Thirteen -year -old Schoolgirl. Still, What Does That Matter? I Want To Write, But More Than That, I Want To Bring Out All Kinds Of Things That Lie Buried Deep In My Heart.

I Love You, With A Love So Great That It Simply Couldn't Keep Growing Inside My Heart, But Had To Leap Out And Reveal Itself In All Its Magnitude.

As Long As You Can Look Fearlessly At The Sky, You'll Know That Your Pure Within And Will Find Happiness Once More.

The Question Is Very Understandable, But No One Has Found A Satisfactory Answer To It So Far. Yes, Why Do They Make Still More Gigantic Planes, Still Heavier Bombs And, At The Same Time, Prefabricated Houses For Reconstruction? Why Should Millions Be Spent Daily On The War And Yet There's Not A Penny Available For Medical Services, Artists, Or For Poor People? Why Do Some People Have To Starve, While There Are Surpluses Rotting In Other Parts Of The World? Oh, Why Are People So Crazy?