Blog Post Title One

In mid-October, I received a letter from my friend, Troy Davis. I had just returned to my home in Seattle after nearly three months on the road, and, as I sifted through a pile of bank statements and junk mail, there was Troy’s letter, dated July 27 and waiting for me all this time. I sat shivering on my front porch, though the late afternoon sunlight was still warm, and held the envelope, staring for several minutes at the neat, almost childlike cursive penmanship of my name and address. I was unprepared to be receiving this communication, and uncertain if I could bring myself to open it. My friend Troy Davis was dead now. He had been executed by the state of Georgia three weeks earlier.