Years ago, I wrote that Glen McGinnis didnt know he would live forever. But of course, he didnt. He died, in a prison in Huntsville, Texas. From a cell in Texas he wanted to write his way out of a date with an electric chair nicknamed Old Sparky. His letters, written to anyone who would listen, were filled with prisons literacy: awkward phrases like I was told that your person and I do hope that by the time this missive reaches you. The way he wrote said that he was educated within a cell, his letters peppered with words no longer heard outside of prison walls.