My dear friend.
How can you ask me if I still remember how does it feel to be observed, to be watched, to be seen, to be followed. Have you forgotten how it is? I can't. I'm alive, I still feel the beats of my heart going faster, responding to some strange eyes; and my skin transformed into some abstract painting, getting a thousand dots for my thousand sins; I still listen someone's breath, but I'm not able to say his name. I can't recognize his face and I don't care.