Here's the next excerpt from his book, My Road Home:
The temperatures remain in the low 90s, the heat in this cell is unbearable at times. I am sweating constantly. Outside these walls, one would describe it as a perfect summer day. In here however it is something different entirely. No showers yesterday, so it's been four days since water or soap has touched my skin. I have been using the sink water to clean my body as best I can. So as not to sit the entire time I pace back & forth, back & forth. Three whole steps before I have to turn around. I stare out the tiny window, summer has always been my most favorite season. I think it would be easy to go absolutely mad here, just fucking lose it, become broken. The days seem to last forever. At 7:00 pm we get one hour of TV time, or if you prefer, card playing. Plastic chairs arraigned in front of the TV, six rows of five each, positively no talking allowed. Majority rules in terms of what we watch, this of course means watching some mindless sitcom or reality show, something along the likes of either Jerry Springer Show, or Bernie Mac. I sit there in a trance, alternating between staring out the window at the setting sun, to the ridiculous show. The sad thing is, just about all the guys watching the TV are loving it, laughing their stupid heads off. Like they're in the comfort of their own homes, the only thing missing is a Lazy-Boy chair. I think to myself, "Why can't I be happy like that?" Where is the stress on these dudes, why don't they seem to feel the shame that I do?