My eyes, my brain seek out escape routes wherever I am sent.

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.

When they talk of ghosts of the dead who wander in the night with things still undone in life, they approximate my subjective experience of this life.

That is how prison is tearing me up inside. It hurts every day. Every day takes me further from my life.

This world is nothing. An illusion. Death is the release.

One morning I woke up and was plunged into psychological shock. I had forgotten I was free.

My eyes, my brain seek out escape routes wherever I am sent.