My friend,
You certainly did not write at an inopportune time. The only problem is that I myself am in such a dark place that I could (if this is even a sentence) could fortify someone only with some vitamins of despair.
Yet it matters little! Merely the fact that we remember someone, be it a memory of pain or radiance, helps us at least to such an extent that writing a feeling, assuming it was deep (and it was deep), one knows unerringly that if a feeling is described in writing, it will be read, or better still, that it won’t be forgotten. That is no small feat!
And you would not be a poet, a poet of a world so tender, if you were not vulnerable to every beat of the faithful and unfaithful heart. This is known. I say this only because sometimes it is good to realize why and for what the point is of this one and that one, and of the third one and fiftieth one.

I am also saying this because there is power from vulnerability. But now we are getting into work, into (illegible) work, (illegible) of nobody (driven again somewhere else by the furies). And when you finish it, you will be pleased by some spontaneous voice, lord knows where it comes from, or even a silence – and therefore when I saw in your letter something with (illegible), I hastily skimmed it and read on. No one will offer their hand, and it would be bad if they did, and even worse, if you accepted it.
The poet’s path is different. One night I (illegible) on a wall:
You with demons and once again alone,
You lured away from those to terror,
If perhaps you don’t know the way,
(illegible) with it (illegible)!
Which is everything (illegible). Simple: (illegible)
I am thinking of you.
Yours, V. H.