I sit here this morning, high, sipping my coffee in the silence of my cell, as outside the sun is rising over Harris Creek; a monk who denies himself no pleasure. The womb and the tomb; these two are one. The pleasure evoked by this tapping, by this restraint of the flood of words, is the pleasure of being in the womb, of being protected from reality. The writing envelopes the body, protecting it from all that does not want it. Writing is like reefer.

To be contained is to be constrained. These sentences tapped out within this rectangle constrain the free flow of words; the words are imprisoned or entombed. And the words written are themselves prisons within prisons. It is the prison of words constrained that engenders me, the writer of words. My punishment is my pleasure.