Barely a soul uses the prison library.

It is pokey and ill-lit, but I have found

my space to think. The degree in art

history takes me away from petty

prison politics, so I can focus

on the bigger things. The loathing

and bullying of the other inmates

has lost impetus, with me cocooned

behind a wall of books. The warden,

impressed by my academic study,

has promised additional funding

for the principal scholarly texts.

The silence of my children disturbs

me. After our breakthrough, nothing.

I shall write to my eldest son.

The warden has granted me some

stationery and pens.


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