Prison Dreamcaster
On the shadowed rim of lost nightmares, haunted by visions of the Reaper and the Brothers Grim, it’s hard to find the distinction between what is real and what is an illusion. Sitting on the edge of just such a pointless realization, I crushed out the last bit of my “rollie”, (better known as a cheap, hand-rolled smoke), and carefully tucked it into the worn-out Marlboro box that had served as my cigarette case for the past few weeks. Things had gotten pretty lean. The bail money, and the...