I see him. I see Randall Lealman wake up. I see him look around in confusion, as he always does, eyes darting around the room so fast they looked like they were trying to escape their sockets. As Randall Lealman took in the stone-cold floor, the shining bars, the flimsy desk, and the dirty toilet, his face fell and his body slumped. A forlorn expression took over his face. For a second, I had seen his hope and longing etched into the wrinkles and scars on his face, wrinkles, and scars that had not formed a smile in years.

I'm a silent observer. I watch from afar. Randall Lealman is my only friend. That is to say, I am a notebook. Notebooks typically don't have many friends. Especially not notebooks like me, confined to jail cells. Notebooks in jail cells don't deserve friends, but I have Randall Lealman. I know everything about him. He's a simple man, fifty-three years of age. He has thin brown hair, a leaning stature, and a kind of look in his eyes that tells you that he's always looking at you from afar, no matter how close you are to him. Randall Lealman doesn't care about his jail life anymore. Except for those few precious seconds each morning, Randall Lealman has accepted his predicament. He will continue to live in this jail cell, suffering through those seconds of feeling like his life had changed. Randall Lealman does not care about his daughter anymore. His sculptures don't matter to him anymore. His hands, hands that had woven from fabrics and squashed clay, had given massages and stirred ladles, had held books and pressed shutters, had typed paragraphs and cut through wood… those hands were now shaking.

Lunch was brought in, and Randall Lealman ate it with surprising speed. Randall Lealman paused to wipe his hands on his pants. He stopped and stared at his hand, something new entering his eyes. Eyes that had seen weavings and sculptures, had seen massages and seen soup, had read books and looked at photographs, had read paragraphs and darted over wood… He stopped his rampage of thought, staring at the burger as though it would spring to life and give him answers (the burger continued to act like a burger). He paused and began to tap his feet. With this newfound habit, Randall Lealman made it to the last bite of the burger in seconds. He paused once more and continued to stare at the burger. His face looked broken.

Randall Lealman unceremoniously stuffed the last bite of his burger into his mouth and sat at the desk. He picked up the pencil from a pool of dust beside a notebook and began to write. He needed to see himself again.