Caged.

It’s one o’clock in the morning, Helena. The deputy just made a cell walk, looked in on me, and kept walking. I walked to the door and read the time on the clock. My hand is sore from writing, and my heart is broken from these pages, but I owed them to you. I’m going to try to get some sleep now. Hopefully I can sleep through shower call and breakfast, to rebuild a shred of health. I might dream some of these paragraphs in color, or I might dream of you and your long dream hair, or maybe I’ll dream of Angel running through a bright field, making her way into my arms again. Or maybe I won’t dream. Maybe I’m all out of them. I hope that I am.