Here the bed is hard to the point of harshness; there’s no living noise. In prison, you can’t fall ill and wait—you can live and think. With the years, life will become more orderly and everything will be forgotten, of course, but the rasp of the key in the lock’s keyhole in me will remain forever. The “prison quatrains” are bitter poems, yet surprisingly bright—poems permeated by the desire to remain a Person amid the frighteningly distorted camp routine, poems about survival, fear, and love. "Prison quatrains" are read by the author himself, interspersed with stories—memories of prison.