I escaped one time. In 1971 I was in the free world for six weeks.
To be in prison so long, it’s difficult to remember exactly what you did to get there.
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.
Nothing is over and done with. Nothing. Not even your malice.
When I’m forced by circumstances to be in a crowd of prisoners, it’s all I can do to refrain from attack.
My eyes, my brain seek out escape routes wherever I am sent.