The following was written by an inmate on death row. It has been prepared for citizens to read. Some parts have been edited for security purposes and several sections have been removed completely.
June 24
In this depressive state, sleep becomes like a drug. I sleep when I'm not tired to get away from the pain. But I'm afraid to sleep because the nightmares are horrific. The artist draws beautiful pictures of forests, only to be burned down later.
Tomorrow is the day. The clock mocks me in my anguish. The minute hand flies past while the second hand stands still.
Where's my Carton?
June 25
The dominoes have all been set up for this day. Sometimes sinking ships just need to be abandoned - sometimes. It's a strange feeling to want to be dead, but not to die. There is nothing left of me but memories and thoughts. The seams are stronger than the fabric. I haven't left my bed in days, I haven't eaten either. What's the point?
When you sit around for days with nothing to do but think about your life, all your successes become insignificant. All I can notice are the smudges on the paper. I've got the forgive, but I can't seem to manage the forget.
I just wanted a chance to say goodbye.
