I am at this moment thirty-seven years old. Since aged twelve I have been free the sum total of nine and a half months.
How would you like to be forced all the days of your life to sit beside a stinking, stupid wino every morning at breakfast
The only serious crime I have ever committed in free society was bank robbery during the time I was a fugitive.
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.
There was never sufficient evidence presented at my trial to support a finding of intent to kill.
I have been desperate to escape for so many years now, it is routine for me to try to escape.
Nothing is over and done with. Nothing. Not even your malice.
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.
Because there is something helpless and weak and innocent - something like an infant - deep inside us all that really suffers in ways we would never permit an insect to suffer.
That is how prison is tearing me up inside. It hurts every day. Every day takes me further from my life.
My eyes, my brain seek out escape routes wherever I am sent.
I escaped one time. In 1971 I was in the free world for six weeks.
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 find it painful and angering to look in a mirror.
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.
Paranoia is an illness I contracted in institutions. It is not the reason for my sentences to reform school and prison. It is the effect, not the cause.
To be in prison so long, it's difficult to remember exactly what you did to get there.
As long as I am nothing but a ghost of the civil dead, I can do nothing.
One morning I woke up and was plunged into psychological shock. I had forgotten I was free.
When I'm forced by circumstances to be in a crowd of prisoners, it's all I can do to refrain from attack.
Imagine a thousand more such daily intrusions in your life, every hour and minute of every day, and you can grasp the source of this paranoia, this anger that could consume me at any moment if I lost control.
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