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.

As long as I am nothing but a ghost of the civil dead, I can do nothing.

I have been desperate to escape for so many years now, it is routine for me to try to escape.

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.

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.

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

When I'm forced by circumstances to be in a crowd of prisoners, it's all I can do to refrain from attack.

Nothing is over and done with. Nothing. Not even your malice.

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.

To be in prison so long, it's difficult to remember exactly what you did to get there.

I escaped one time. In 1971 I was in the free world for six weeks.

There was never sufficient evidence presented at my trial to support a finding of intent to kill.

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.

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.

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