The other inmates stand in a long straight line, flanked by guards, and I am dragged past them. I do not respect them, because they will not run – will not try to escape.
I’ve wanted somehow to convey to you the sensations – the atmospheric pressure, you might say – of what it is to be seriously a long-term prisoner in an American prison.
There was never sufficient evidence presented at my trial to support a finding of intent to kill.
I escaped one time. In 1971 I was in the free world for six weeks.
The part of me which wanders through my mind and never sees or feels actual objects, but which lives in and moves through my passions and my emotions, experiences this world as a horrible nightmare.
My eyes, my brain seek out escape routes wherever I am sent.
The part of me which wanders through my mind and never sees or feels actual objects, but which lives in and moves through my passions and my emotions, experiences this world as a horrible nightmare.
My eyes, my brain seek out escape routes wherever I am sent.
That is how prison is tearing me up inside. It hurts every day. Every day takes me further from my life.
Nothing is over and done with. Nothing. Not even your malice.
