I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.
Your room is not your prison. You are.
And you grit your teeth, despising yourself for your tremulous sensitivity, and wondering how human beings can suffer their individualities to be mercilessly crushed under a machinelike dictatorship, be it of industry, state or organization, all their lives long.
My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.
I donโt care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.
I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath.