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I sit in my horse stable called a room and I think about how I got here. I left my daughter behind at the age of one just to chase this high. This high disappointed and destroyed families.

The effect of my selfish actions tore through communities leaving a relentless heartache of pain on all who it claimed. I was chasing that high that I put before everything. No one or nothing mattered. I was faithful to it. Faithful to the chase yet it was not faithful to me. I acted in my emotions in my unfaithful intoxication sending me down down down to desperation and despair.

But I love you said my high and I responded prove it and so it did. The proof was in vain. It did not prove a thing. It did not provide its desired gain. The thrill of the high was no longer here but a cold dead body and life without parole was. Eighteen when I entered and eighteen years I have served and there is no clock to stop this time from ticking.

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Every month, a physical envelope arrives at your door, postmarked from San Quentin Village, California. Inside, you will find original artwork, writing, and recipes from real contributors, along with a personal letter from me, Diane Kahn, founder of Humans of San Quentin, about the people who made them. You read it. You keep it.

Every piece comes from someone serving a sentence. Every piece reminds you they are so much more than that.

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