TOUCHMEDONOTTOUCHMEIAMALIVE

Saturday, August 8, 1970

Fig. 003

The afterword, as told by the lesser known blacksmith and felon, John Riley:

I am cold. The room is dim, the only light coming from a lamp made almost 40 years ago. It's shape amuses me, along with the jeweled tassels that hang from it's shade. I am longing. I don't know. Maybe, just maybe, I am lusting. I can't really tell the difference sometimes. I know that I want someone to lie with. Literally just lie. But now that it crosses my mind, sex wouldn't be bad either. I am riddled with bug bites. They itched at first. I am baffled at how I seem to love one, want to lie with another, and fuck a third. Well, actually, I'd do all three with the first, only two with the second, and again all three with the third. Maybe all three with the third. I still can't figure out where my head has placed me for this. I saw the man dragged lifelessly from his cell this morning. It was quite a sight. He was riddled with scratches. Apparently the bites had not lessened in pain for him. I can't leave the prison yet. Not for another 3546334529 minutes. And even then, I'll only get 240 minutes out. Then it's right back there. Here. I really like these bars, I must admit. Nah, fuck the bars. They are too shiny. I want those rusted looking ones. Retro looking. that's the cool thing, right? My stomach hurts. I'm either hungry or I have gas. I never really can tell. Why the fuck is it so cold? It's not even December. I thought it only got cold then. I guess if we had gone to that 14 month system it would have been cold longer. We would have moved then, though. Fuck this place.