Dear Sam,

As I write this email to you, I would first like to set the stage. Looking out my prison window, it’s beautiful outside - sunny, 75, you know, typical L.A. summer. I wish I could go outside and run around. But I can’t, ‘cause I’m dying. I wish is a phrase I’m tossing around a lot these days. I wish I could hold you when life is hard and no one seems to understand. I wish I told you the truth about how I feel about you when I had the chance. I love you. I love you. Right about now, you’re laughing, smiling your sweet, Sammy smile, ‘cause you think I’m joking. But I’m not. I regret never telling you in the moment how I felt. But I didn’t have the nerve. I was afraid you wouldn’t love me back; that’d kill me. But I’m going to die anyway, right? And I don’t want to go to my grave without telling you how I feel. I love you, Sam. I know this much is true.

Harrison