Blondie.

It's a simple drawing of you little and round. I think you'd make a perfect children's character, strong brave and funny in your pinks and blues and blonde. You always look as if you are having the time of your life. Time of your life sounds like you have it once and never again. You're repeating it for every page. There's one though, of you in front of mud by tents. Three of you but it's you I look at as always. You have every right to look unhappy because of the mud; your boots are covered and your pink skirt, though these aren't things that make you unhappy. You said to me that you feel unhappy because you are not confident about yourself and I said the same and you didn't believe me. I believed you. When you said it your voice didn't change from how you normally are, but in the photo you look like you might have felt then.

Maybe you will attribute it to the mud, though usually you don't care about dirt. You look straight at the camera. Your curls have melted to frizz and your hands are sunk into sleeves. There's a slight epaulment on your stooped shoulders, and if I was there I would be the one taking the back of your hand, turning you to me and saying you are lovely lovely lovely, I want you, you are brilliant in the mud in your pink.