I don’t feel particularly haunted. Perhaps that‘s a good thing.

I‘ve spent the day on watch once again, protecting the 93rd with Marcel by my side. We talked about many things, none of them very interesting, but it was a marvelous day all the same. Marcel speaks with a kindness I find is waning in the world, the kind that’s not just a substanceless comfort, but more like a guiding word. I feel truly grateful to know him, and to have met him at such a time. I don’t know what I would have done had he not joined up with the rest of us, perhaps I would already be dead. This, of course, is most probably untrue, but I certainly wouldn’t feel as alive as I do.

Marcel is not the kind of man I would’ve been close friends with before the war. He is a porcupine, and his spines are his mask, the facade he puts on for public scrutiny, the twirled moustache and the tidiness and his fake Parisian accent which turn so many away, and so quickly. His azure eyes, which look so much like the parts of the sky that most closely border the clouds, hold none of the pretentiousness of his spines. The porcupine encased inside the hard shell is well protected, and it seems as though I have broken through. The other side of Marcel’s shell feels like listening to insects chirp on the bank of a river, the water calmly strolling past, catching on fallen logs and rocks. I can almost smell the Rhine now from when I visited as a child, the grass bustling in the wind, giving it that ever-sweet smell of life. Have you ever seen the river banks recede to reveal part of the rocky riverbed below? If so, you too have felt Marcel’s spines slip back on after an ill-timed comment or accidental jab, the kind you wish above anything to take back, to return to the safety of the porcupine. Yet with relief I can say that not much time ever passes before you are back beneath the spines, under the shell, back home. That is Marcel.

Today he told me more about his life in Tulle before he joined up. I was shocked to learn that he was quite popular in his personal circles. I had never heard of him before the war. Was our farm so far out of town that I could miss the existence of such a man? Either way, the feeling wasn’t necessarily that of shock, no, perhaps it was something I am afraid to name. This is a confession book, so I shall try to name it.

I believe it is jealousy.

I don’t pretend to think that I am anything more than wartime company for Marcel, yet something within me believes we could meet again, in a different time and a different place, and that he would think of me differently, maybe even as a friend. I do hope he already does. With him there is no way to tell.

I had a dream last night. I wrote a poem about it, which wouldn’t usually be my first instinct, but I’ve felt poetic as of late. I read it to Marcel today. He seemed to enjoy it, to my jubilation. I suppose I better rewrite it here for posterity’s sake. My English has gotten good enough that I wrote it entirely in English, in the spirit of the diary. Marcel also speaks English.

I find that I am a dreamer when I want to be

When I laid my head down last it was the same

I found myself one moment in bed and the next in a dream

And I will tell you the tale while the memory remains

I held in my hands an uninflated balloon

And with all my breath it managed to fill

And on and on it went, and on and on, and soon

It had grown to the size of the whole world

I believe something happened then I didn’t intend

I looked at the balloon and I saw little balloon men

In the pink latex plains they squeaked out an existence

And formed a new town without much resistance

There’s a time and a place for believing such things

But there and then I knew I saw the balloon men crown a king

There was peace in their piece of the world

King Thursday was born Thursday and crowned later that day

As soon as he was royal he tried to take their fears away

And the good king Thursday promised to keep everything the same

But disaster! Disaster! It was never far away

First, the people of his kingdom demanded it receive a name

But despite his best attempts, he found no one could agree

And despite his diligence he could find no other way

So he named the kingdom Pink after all he could see

Second, came the shouts of people marching in the streets

Saying “Give us something different than what is all around”

So King Thursday thought about a way to keep the peace

So he told everyone to gather in the center of the town

He said “I believe there’s something special lying just beneath our feet

And we’d gain control of it if we’d just dig in the ground”

So the people started digging, and with one infernal squeak

A hole appeared, and from it came a wind, and then a sound

I’m not yet sure what it means, nor does Marcel. It is the diary’s influence that caused the dream, I believe. Whether it’s real or imagined I cannot tell. I grow tired, little book. Let me have another dream tonight.