How can I look into my mirror and not see this monumental change that must have occurred in me but the same image stares at me from those depths. The world I know has shifted off its axis. I do have some good news of sorts. I have heard from this writ writer that he has an additional idea. The guards brought me some forms today, which I was to sign. I asked where they had come from, and he told me this inmate. I started to read through them, and felt my heart soar. The guard likes me and asked if it was good news, and said the person who sent them had been up all night working on this. I have to get some information from the free world, and that is what these forms are for, some sort of permission from me. He isn’t even asking me for funds to pay for this, though I know it must be costing him. You don’t know how good some of the people are back here. You think they are all monsters because that is what the news tells you. Some of the best people I know live back here. Hope springs up maybe.
82 days to live.
© Copyright 2010 by Kevin Varga and Thomas Bartlett Whitaker. All rights reserved.