Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I Felt Happy Because I Saw The Others Were Happy And Because I Knew I Should Feel Happy, But I Wasn't Really Happy.

Nothing Happened Today. And If Anything Did, I’d Rather Not Talk About It, Because I Didn’t Understand It.

Every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me.

Literature Is The Product Of A Strange Rain Of Blood, Sweat, Semen, And Tears.

When You Die Of Sorrow It's As If You've Broken All The Bones In Your Body, Bruised Yourself All Over, Cracked Your Skull. That's Sorrow.