I do not understand this drought in letters; it’s like a stream in Death Valley.
I’ve been writing a lot of poetry. Perhaps they are letters to myself, for loneliness has touched me in every way. Sometimes I hear footsteps and I know the mail is being passed out. I pretend not to notice, not to hear. But I hear, I notice, and there is no love passed out today, for my stream has run dry without warning.
(Sound of a cell door closing.) These commentaries are recorded by Noelle Hanrahan of Prison Radio.