(the following passages were taken from the Simkin papers, which I secretly got a hold of, and feel that the information in here should be shared with anyone who reads this . most spelling errors were corrected. Grammer and sentence structure was not.)

(The first 4 lines of page 1 were illegible…the remainder of the first few pages were scrawled so sporadically it looked like a blind person wrote them on a rollercoaster. Words were overlapping. Sentences fell off of the paper. Its taken me a while to decipher.)
....ny days I've been here. My eyes can't seem to adjust very well to the dark.
So hungry. Not hungry. Angry.
Every few hours, im assuming the clouds clear from the sky's outside, because a beam of sunlight barges its way in from a crack in the welded shut window and illuminates a 2 foot square on the ground, which in turn just lights up a small puddle of liquid and grime. I'm thirsty, but not enough to come close to it with my mouth.
I do however, lunge for the light when I see it enter.
The light in the puddle makes casting a reflection possible.
I need to see my face. I need to see what he did to it.
It's fucking deflated.
When the beam begins crawling in, I muster up the energy to jump towards it. Though it probably is more of a snail's pace (and probably a snail's mucus trail in addition), it feels to me like a fucking sprint.
I crouch in position, and lean down toward the puddle, and wait for the saber of sunshine to stab the water and illuminate my face.
But every time…it hurts too bad.
The glare is too harsh. The light bricks off of the water and sears into my hermitic irises. It knocks me back. I fall. Things squish. Things crack. Smells escape. Fucking disgusting smells.
I…don't see my face.
I continue to try with each intrusion of the light. I figure that I can build a tolerance enough that one of these times its not going to hurt. Can I build calluses up on my pupils? So far, no good. But it's the one game I have in here. So I'm going to keep playing.

I doubt anyone will ever read this. I probably won't ever be able to SEE this to re-read it, even if I want to.
The point isn't to talk to you about the combat. Or the struggle. Or the pain. Or the feelings. The point of this is to keep my hands busy, and my mind occupied to counter the poison of loneliness and captivity.
To try to explain any kind of distress to someone who hasn't experienced it, or anything similar, is fucking nonsense. Yah, you'll get excited at first, there's someone to root for, and there's a sense of danger and violence. And then you'll start to realize that everything was or is real. That these things happened. To ME. You'll turn a sympathetic eye toward me, someone you will never know, and then suddenly, you will grow uninterested and walk away as a defense mechanism. And I will have even bored you after my death. If I die, that is. And right now, I give myself another 3 days….