they often tell me,I stepped from my cells confinement, calmaly, cheerfully,firmly,like a squire from his country-house.They often tell me i used to speak to my warders freely and friendly and clearely as thought it was mine to command.They also tell me i bore the days of misfortune equally,smillingly,proudly,lik- e one accustomed to win.Am i then really all that which othere men tell of?Or am i only what i my self know of my self?restless and longing and sick,like a bird in acage stuggling for the breath as thought hands were compressing my throat,yearning for colors,for flower,for the voices of of birds,thirdting for words of kindness,for nieghorliness,tossing in expectation of great events,powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,wery and empty at praying,at thinking,at making,faith,and ready to say farewell to it all?Am I one person today and tommorow another?A hypocitie's before,othere and before me a contemptibly woebegone weakling?Or is something....

a guy that cares me alot even in bed and ill make it scream for pleasure