65 BLAKE JONES
November 17
I laid on the bottom bunk of a two-tiered, steel framed bed with my arm folded across my forehead. If I had to guess the time, I’d say it was close to 3 AM. I wouldn’t be falling asleep soon and, much like the night before, it was just me, alone with my thoughts. It was dark, and the entire prison was quiet except for the shuffling of the guard at his desk and my cellmate, who was snoring. He sounded like a lawn mower with engine problems, but was a pretty quiet guy during the day. In fact, he hadn’t said more than a couple of words since I got here, which was fine by me. The reality of the past 9 days still hadn’t sunk in, and I didn’t want to talk to him (or anyone else). There was no way this was my real life. I did my best to convince myself that this was a
