But he did not see it.
Then I threw a cake of soap and a toothbrush at him. But I missed him, and he passed on.
Another Day.
Love has come into my life. It fills it. I have seen HIM again. I have spoken with him. He sat beside the river on his camp stool. How beautiful he looked, sitting on it: how strong he seemed and how frail the little stool on which he sat.
Before him was the easel and he was painting. I spoke to him.
I know his name now.
His name—. How my heart beats as I write it—no, I cannot write it, I will whisper it—it is Otto Dinkelspiel.
Is it not a beautiful name? Ah!
He was painting on a canvas—beautiful colours, red and gold and white, in glorious opalescent streaks in all directions.