Prelude to love three letters

Abstract

Eldridge Cleaver Folsom Prison Represa, California September 5, 1965 Dear Beverly Axelrod: For two charged days and restless nights after you left, I loafed in the case of my skull, feeling prematurely embalmed in some magical ethered mist dispensed by the dialetic of our contact. When I left you sitting in that little glass cage, which I must somehow learn to respect because it has a special, eternal meaning now, I did not stop or pause. Including the door to that glass cage, and counting the door of my cell, I passed through twelve assorted gates and doors before collapsing on my narrow bed, staggering under the weight of the DAY. The doors and gates swung open before me as I advanced upon them, as I charged down on them, as if they were activated by photoelectric cells responding to my approach. I walked swiftly, but I felt myself to be running, stumbling, thrashing and flailing with my arms to clear a passage through dense, tangled vines. I spoke to no one, recognized no one, and I felt that no one could see or recognize me (wrong: I was accused next day of walking past a couple of henchmen as if they weren't even there. I kept telling them that, in fact, as far as I was concerned, they weren't there, but they refuse to believe in their own non-existence or invisibility). On the third day I arose again from the damned. No, that's going too far!