Anything and everything that crosses the mind becomes one small paper-like cut on the skin of my soul. Some of the cuts seem minor in comparison to others, even though none of them alone could ever be fatal in and of themselves. Not even if some sort of equivalent to an infection of the soul could occur. On the back of the mule, the small bumps eventually feel like hard hits on the back with a baseball bat. The little noises of the outside world - like cars passing by on the nearby road - sound like chainsaws and the breeze itself sounds like a crackling fire. Substance becomes bland paste that just rubs into the cuts on the soul, only temporarily covering them from the blistering breeze and burning sun, never to heal, only to reveal a deeper side of the agony that rides on the back of the mule with me. What is Gulag, one might ask. Not by definition, but by relation. No one could ever relate that experience to another human being, because there is no equivalent to that level of loneliness and abandonment. There is no pain that is its equal. The miles and miles the weeks and weeks the thoughts and endless thoughts. My own voice became the only voice I heard and I still hear it, the final insanity of a thousand twisted thoughts.