Brawler and I are living our dreams -- doing the work we love here in the Big City, and it is wonderful. Here he is a successful cockfighter, and I work all the time. It is hard too, though, because we have so little time together. There's hardly any time to sleep, much less for me to write to you, dear, DD. It seems as if I'm always either at rehearsal or a performance. I'm at the Clothespin Rep every night, and I start work on the Le Club Poulet act tomorrow. Brawler's either in the ring, or getting ready for a bout. Yesterday he came home battered and bloody, and he won. I'd hate to see the bird who lost . . . Brawler doesn't like it when I write, DD. I think he doesn't know how, although he'll never admit it. So for now, I'll take you to the theatre, and write between shows.