My coffee is still to hot to drink when I step onto my second-floor walk — the nearest thing to a porch I have — to prop myself on a railing and watch the other early risers. I'm succeeding at holding my eyelids apart, for the most part, but let no one ever accuse me of being a morning person.
The wing's a tomb, except for the hum of the ice machine revving up for another 900° August day. Then, suddenly, a blur of motion below me. Imagine: the convict is from central casting, with the requisite waxed scalp, weight-pile musculature, and inked skin that make him a perfect candidate for that new FX Network drama. He's strutting; the saunter says, unequivocally, badass. And yet... my bleary sights focus on the little platter he's transporting to the microwave and I chuckle aloud. Our fierce Aryan's breakfast? No, not a cigarette and the blood of an Untermensch. It's a couple of slim toaster pastries topped with pastel pink icing and, in the whole spectrum of Easter-egg colors, sprinkles.
Sprinkles! Can you believe it? This is all it takes for my mood to elevate and my entire day to improve.
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Byron does not have Internet access. Pariahblog.com posts are sent from his cell by way of a secure service especially for prisoners' use. We do read him your comments, however, and he enjoys hearing your thoughts very much.