Prison is intensity. Nobody can spend a night in it without training his throat to something like song. That is the permited method for taming the isolation and maintaining the dignity of suffering. When you hear your hoarse voice, your other self is conversing with you and whispers to you news about yourself, in a room which, however cramped it may be, is surrounded by wide space, and you embrace the world with a love of peace. While you are singing, you do not sing in order to share the night with someone else. You do not sing to measure the rhythm of time, or as a sign; you sing because the cell incites you to confide in the outsider, to reduce the totality of isolation. Fields come to you with the rustling of golden ears of grain; the sun fills your heart with the light of an orange; alpine flowers come to you, in disorder like the hair of a chaotic girl; and the aroma of cardamom comes to yo. If is as if you had never before been alert to the space and peace about you. to your failure to celebrate Nature.