Excerpt:

I twirled my wrist in a slow circle, trying to uncramp my hand from the extensive writing I had just finished. My fingers flipped the blue pen back and forth as I sat and stared at the letter, considering what would be the most professional way to sign it. It seemed like it had taken me ages to finish writing it; looking back, I'm not really sure if there was any point in even starting it.
Of course, when you're in my position, there's always a point. Everything people like me do is for a purpose. All we have is an abundance of time and the hope that we can find something productive to do with it. For me, being productive means writing another letter, getting some exercise, or reading. All of the guys use their time differently, but at the same time, in the same way. I don't think any of us really keep track of the time anymore. Every day is the same thing; it's like when we go to bed, time resets itself and we live the same day over and over again. Every once and a while we'll have a visitor or a fight breaks out and I usually write in my journal about it.
I guess I keep my journal as a way to keep myself from going sane, and maybe someday, I'll be able to share it with someone. Nobody would want to read it; nobody on the outside at least. Anybody that says anything that goes on here is pleasant is a liar; if you've never been here, you don't know what it's like. You can't imagine. I just don't think anyone is so warped, so deranged, so insane, that their brains would allow them to come up with the things that I've seen and heard. If a guy is capable of thinking that stuff, they should probably do everybody a favor and throw him in; he's probably gonna end up here sooner or later anyway. Why wait?
I look back down at the letter that I had finished writing. I still couldn't think of the proper way to wrap it up.