I am holding these old papers, crumpled and worn for having changed hiding-places so often, and I read them over again. They were written in secret, unknown to @mu4, and as such, they express a kind of survival of my independence; that is why they are dear to me, if only as mere objects-the plain reality of paper. They were written at times when I was struggling, through writing, to overcome the anguish of being in prison. They are simply fragments of that anguish. And yet I did not write them for myself alone..
My only friends are these rats that mock me and eat cheese. There are friends in other cells as well, such as @Joe Biden. We are mercilessly separated by the barbed wire which fences in humanity in this cancel-culture we have today.
It is as if they were standing on dry land, while we are being drawn far away at sea by a strong dark current. It is only natural, then, that these signals of distress should be addressed to them. This is precisely what I am doing, sending smoke signals to my friends, both to those I have known and to those I have not chanced to meet. Signals that do not say very much and that certainly do not ask for anything. But they do give me something very precious: the feeling that I still exist, and that they exist too.
Would they
See a poor girl?
No siree.
They'd find out
There's so much
More to me