Dear Max,
I cannot quite make out from your card whether you have received mine. Nor could I pull myself together sufficiently to write to Baum all this while. Didn’t I write recently that all I could still do was Müller exercises. Well, I can’t even do them anymore. Recently I had rheumatic pains in my shoulders, then they slid down to the small of my back, then into my legs, but instead of going on into the ground as you might expect, they went up into the arms. It’s perfectly in accord with all this that the raise in salary I expected today hasn’t come, won’t come next month either, but only after I’m so tired of waiting for it that I don’t give a damn.What pleases me most about the novella, dear Max, is that I have it out of the house.Tomorrow I’ll come over to see you around seven o’clock (it’s six o’clock now and I’m still in the office), also because of Bohemia. You’ll show me poems; it will be a lovely evening.
So long.
Yours, Franz
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