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.

My prison is my pleasure. The penal system mimics the legal system. What I fear and loathe is the unrestrained, the unconstrained, an unchecked flow of shit, of sperm, of words. You see, my punishment is my pleasure. "Go to your room." I love my room; it protects me from unrestrained flows that would carry me away. Life in prison is seen as preferable to death; it is better to be painfully restrained than it is to lose all restraint.

My pleasures and my pains depend upon restraint, depend upon "No". To conceive a system from the flows of desire is to negate them, to act against them. Since all that is, is desire, I conclude that implicit in the flows of desire, is the desire to restrain. I am the product of the desire to constrain, but I experience here, in my sumptuous cell on Harris Creek, the desire to dissolve and flow out between the bars. I am simultaneously of two minds.

A life sentence ends with a period; death. The Capital Punishment is not avoided, only delayed. But my punishment is my pleasure. It is Sunday on Harris Creek.