This was the last letter sent from a sprouting artist to the beautiful framer he had become smitten with on his last visit home.

"My Dearest Beulah Rose,

I now seat myself to reply to your letter for the purpose of giving you the particklures concerning these Giclee Wars. This is the lousiest place in the world. My rations are low to the point of starvation...most items were cut off entirely and the sutler was forbidden to sell us anything of substantial nature. If you can spare it, please send me some smokes, cadmium red scarlet, cobalt blue, hooker's green, brushes (a full-bellied round no. 8 fitch hair would be ideal; a flat no. 10 if it's possible (you know how I enjoy the kolinksy sables) and the largest filbert brush you can find) and another photograph of you placing your snapdragons on the high shelf next to the icebox. I've just had a quick shave before chow and now take this present opportunity to write this letter to you.

We all do what we can to remain in good spirits these hard, hard times. The new inks have arrived today (Alexander Shepard had nothing to do with them as always) and has excited everyone's hump of curiosity to such a degree that most of them disobeyed orders enough to climb the steep curb where they had a good view of the rebel shows.

The cries of the wounded are pitiful. They seem so helpless. James "squirt" Morton, a domestic potter from the panhandle, is forever taunted by the art triad, who try to do away with most matters by the sword. They deem him paltry and of no importance to this fight. Ah, the fight. The triad is not the reason for the war but keep the fighting going. I try to make sense of all of it. Squirt only tries to do his best, as do most of the people here. But tunes continue to change so fast. We had twenty taken in the war and seven seriously wounded. Harry North, the man I mentioned to you that does the small watercolors (and has given me the latest William Morris material), has become very sick. He will not make it and does not receive the necessary attention from the triad and rebels. They have favored a rather bad doodler lately and seem to find interest in his scribblings. The division just South of us has reported clogged nozzles. Their accuracy is gone and the color gamut has whittled down to nothing. There isn't a painter among them and I can only sympathize and wish them luck. Innocent people are getting caught in the crossfire. Hearts, minds, eyes and wills have been lost and destroyed. That first wave that took our position was desperate, but with sheer will, fear and luck we overcame all obstacles and pushed forward. Marcus Anderson, the one translating the Icelandic saga for me, is on litho patrol and is still on the tail end of many jokes and pranks by the fellas from the bigger cities. He is one of the grandest, sincerest people I have met here and it is an honor to serve this time with him. He shoulders his burnisher and scribe combo with his grandfather's 3-sided hollow scraper. "The defense of polished copper is coming to an end..." Nobody wants to listen to him and they try to do things on their own.

The Damascus Sidel spies, heartland socialites whose connections provide them with great access to important persons, have begun to associate with the art triad and write propaganda against the unselected and snub most of the dirt cave inhabitants. Why go after those folks? I've tried to help them but presentation and association are powerful here and the triad seem to always control what people experience. I opposed the triad with every instinct of self-preservation; still, even I have had my sanity questioned. From what I hear on the lines, they have no interest but their own. What are their motivations? Why do they do this? They think they can starve the art bruts but they will fail for I never saw a better prospect in my life for an abundant crop. They stir up a strange feverish desire for petty excitement. And yes, they have shown an interest in me, to what degree my Rose I don't know. You wanted to know how I felt after I saw action and I have told you all I can that will pass the censors. Fierce debates over these issues had imperiled the creation of the art colonies from their earliest days. I only hope the reason for these wars can be expunged. I want to feel like I'm achieving something. I am not scared to fight.

Well I'm not supposed to judge so I better not continue.

Must close now my darling. I cannot write anymore. Draw or Die, baby! Resist the fading!

In behalf of the inhabitants and common fellows of AP and their human freedom! Nothing to dishonor. Now I must go and continue my fine picture of three small puppies with the butterflies and birds you so adore.
Yours always..."