del ray
Dear Diego,




How are you, panzon?

Why didn't you tell me Paris was such a nightmare?



The French are the most pretentious bores in the world. I'd rather sit on the
floor of a market in Toluca selling tortillas than have to listen to the prattling
of the artistic bitches of Paris.



There really hasn't been as much interest in the exhibition as Breton promised.
Mexican artists are nothing but an exotic curiosity here. All in all, it's been
lonely, and I crave news from home.



Diego, this letter is a lie. Paris has been good to me.



But without you, it means nothing. All the rage of our 12 years together passes
through me, and I'm left knowing that I love you more than my own skin. And
though you may not love me as much, you do love me a little, don't you? If this
is not true, I'll always be hopeful that it could be.



I adore you.

Frida.


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del ray
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Prose is architecture, and the Baroque is over.

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