Answer:
'Why do you read this book alone?' I was asked.
I stumbled and mumbled.
Julius Ceasar couldn´t have been more wounded
by this simple question, sharp as a killer´s knife.
Brutus, you?
My fictional world of silence was taken apart;
to read it aloud, how?
The book on my lap, it burned;
the flame of shame.
If I could, or would, should I share?
But to exist as a social being,
would I stop to exist as myself and me,
and crumble into a humble reader,
not being able to bare
the sight of others
in the campfire´s flare.
Step-by-step explanation: