Anything That Can Be Put In A

While I Was Chained To A Wall And Being Tortured, I Realized, Through The Screaming Of My Mind, That Even In That Shackled, Bloody Helplessness, I Was Still Free: Free To Hate The Men Who Were Torturing Me, Or To Forgive Them. It Doesn't Sound Like Much, I Know. But In The Flinch And Bite Of The Chain, When It's All You've Got, That Freedom Is A Universe Of Possibility. And The Choice You Make Between Hating And Forgiving, Can Become The Story Of Your Life.

You Can Never Tell What People Have Inside Them Until You Start Taking It Away, One Hope At A Time

Whatever You Do, In The Privacy Of Your Own Rain Shower, Is Your Own Business

I Think That It Is A Part Of Growing Up, Learning To Control Our Suffering. I Think That When We Grow Up, And Learn That Happiness Is Rare, And Passes Quickly, We Become Disillusioned And Hurt. And How Much We Suffer Is A Mark Of How Much We Have Been Hurt By This Realisation. Suffering, You See, Is A Kind Of Anger. We Rage Against The Unfairness, The Injustice Of Our Sad And Sorry Lot.

The Only Victory That Really Counts In Prison Is Survival. But Survival Means More Than Simply Being Alive. It's Not Just The Body That Must Survive A Jail Term; The Spirit And The Will And The Heart Have To Make It Through As Well. If Any One Of Them Is Broken Or Destroyed, The Man Whose Living Body Walks Through The Gate, At The End Of His Sentence, Can't Be Said To Have Survived It. And It's For Those Small Victories Of The Heart, And The Spirit, And The Will That We Sometimes Risk The Body That Cradles Them.