Dear Socrates, I write to you how i feel because i need your advice. My hands are callaused and cold and stiff. It is lonely on Everest. The wind hates me. I think i hate me too. Dear [Léonie] I know you dont go here, but i think this is for the better. I don't want to vent, not when my birthday is a day away, but it's lonely here. I think i was born alone, and thus i will die on the top of this mountain, and i don't want you to find out. i love you. platonically, but more than you will ever know. I loved you. Thank you. [END CALL]