January 15, 1815
Journal,
Its cold. My food is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her jas and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on top, boven of it. I sit at a boom trunk, with u on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia
Journal,
Its cold. My food is almost gone, I can’t feel my hands. I lost my hat; my ears are frozen. My sisters are dying. Sasha has pneumonia, and Nastea’s lost her jas and shoes. My hair is falling out. I look at the broken down train behind us. Tree’s sleep soundlessly on top, boven of it. I sit at a boom trunk, with u on my lap, and a scrawny pencil in my hand. Nastea sits beside Sasha, feeding her berries and herbs. I hope things get better, Journal. I hope things get better.
Bye Journal,
Nadia