They’d taken me hostage. They’d found me sitting in my home, drinking some tea, and minding my own business. I knew they would.

Even though I’d destroyed my computer, burned all my paintings, and surrendered my ipod when the law was signed, I just couldn’t give up my books.

I had hidden them, underground, in my private basement room behind a false wall. When they searched my house they never found them. But they never stopped watching.

I never stopped writing. I couldnt’ help it. I wrote on napkins at Starbucks. I ‘took notes’ in meetings. I wrote while on the phone. I was sure to be found out one day.

I left clues. For others. One day, when people desire culture again, maybe, my books will be found.

So I willingly go to the gas chamber, knowing that my death is not in vain. I die, part of the past, leaving behind the keys to the future.