On federal death row in Terre Haute, Indiana, life is bleak, the concrete cold, and the steel unforgiving. This place has a way of getting inside me, permeating my mood, inducing bleakness, coldness, unforgiveness. It’s much easier to slip away into a dissociative state and float outside yourself into world of fantasy rather than undergoing the harrows of deprivation in which I now lie. I lie in bed staring at the white ceiling, the metal bed frame pressing hard through the thin mattress. I turn onto my side, giving my back some much-needed relief. A few minutes ago, I’d stirred awake to find myself, once again, entombed in a small concrete cell, my mood supersaturated with the death-life of death row. I sense precipitation condensing on my eyes, tears forming on my lids. I can no longer shake this feeling of living death, of being alive and yet somehow dead–dead to the world and bereft of social stimulation. A tear slides down my cheek. I mourn what my life has become, what it has bee...