A second, previously undiscovered, letter by Kenya correspondent Bill Hatworn has surfaced. It was found in a junk shop in Junkshop.

I want my art to be in cars, or somewhere lacking proper food. You know the sort of place I mean. One book contains my art and crap. I sit and sweat in sordid bars, or on a stack of broken wood. I’m dumb. Barbaric. I am keen. My art’s my life. My life’s my trap. You’ll always make me very sick. It’s not your lips, it’s not your hair. I spat out the cake you bought for me. These are the boys. These are the girls. This is the torch. This is the stick. This is the foliage and this is the chair. This is the lumberjack hacking a tree. This is the worst of all possible worlds. My rake, your spade, here’s our vegetations. We hop and stammer by ourselves. I want to share the flu I’ve caught. Your raincoat’s the colour of the windowsill. I’m cross, or am I doing the stations? All I hear is the clank of bells. I’m so tall and you’re horribly short. You’re unspeakable. My name’s Bill.