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118: Standing at the Prison Gate, I Was Icarus Plummeting to Earth.

writing class radio

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I Love You, Daddy, Echoed

"I can't picture my son's face, like a jigsaw puzzle before me. Everything is familiar, yet the details are unclear," he writes. Twice a day, i'm treated to warm boloni sandwiches. Pulsating music i can feel, but not hear. It's been 11 days. Tell them apart. They're unique. I've named them oddly. The guard said, let's go. In a fucking minute, i barked. Maybe he was a father. Maybe there was an ounce of humanity, of decency. Here later, the same guard withheld submitting my commissary funds for two weeks just to remind me who was in charge. "Unlike boe

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