Thursday, January 19, 1984

It smells of sweat and sour air. A bitter mixture of paper sacks, Bakelite and oily metal. Yard walk in the fresh air always makes me a little dizzy.

After three days of fitting plugs, fiddling with pins and turning screws, I’ve finally got the hang of it. Today I’ll get my sack full without the guys.

“Still no post,” I grumble. “It takes time,” they say. Because of the censorship. First, our super warden reads what I’ve written. Then an investigator or public prosecutor. And then, because of the application to leave the country, probably the Stasi. It can easily take a few days or weeks for a letter to finally arrive in the post. It’s the same the other way around.

I want to know what they can do to me because of the application to leave the country. Basically nothing bad. They’ll tell me that it’s pointless and that nobody will care. Or they’ll tempt me with empty promises to withdraw. If things go complicated, they’ll leave it to a snitch to reverse me.

They’re unlikely to hit me. In the worst case, they’ll leave it to a thug, who they’ll lock me in a cell with at some point. I’ll recognize him when the time comes. Then the only thing that helps is cock comparison and see what happens. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭

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