I am writing to tell you, Joseph. Your wife died, and then on the night of Christmas day. She shot them on guard border road. She cried. Phawen your son and my nephew on her back The guards shot him, too. Your wife and your son, and then died. Your friend told me yesterday.You have a new life in the English country appropriated in jazz. Do I have? You do not have to remove it from my nephew and my daughter now, and it's a little phawen, because you died. Do not write to me, and do not come back to the city of Prague. I never want to see you or hear from you again.
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