P.S. To Last Post
I think the dictator's servants may finally have figured out that the way to keep Bill from writing all those embarrassing letters and articles, and filing all those annoying legal papers protesting against his hideous victimization, is massive "diesel therapy."
This is a term within the prison-industrial complex for when the authorities keep one of their captives constantly moving from institution to institution across the landscape of the American GULAG, trying to keep him or her one step ahead of their attorneys, their paperwork, their family and friends and support system.
In Bill's case, they've decided that one way they don't have to bother with coping with his stacks of incoming and outgoing mail, all of which must be photocopied and sent on to whatever faceless bureaucrat in Washington D.C. is in charge of his lifelong persecution and personal destruction, is to keep batting him back and forth like a badminton bird, so no one ever knows where he is and his mail can't catch up to him.
One thing Bill did mention in one of his letters (they were arriving seven or eight at a time from Loretto; the censors would stuff several weeks' worth all into one envelope, not even bothering to conceal what they were doing)--anyway, one of the things Bill discussed with some bureaucrat there was his status. By BOP rules he has been a model prisoner over the past six years and is entitled to minimum security, but the bureaucrat admitted that the BOP had been ordered by someone in Washington to classify and treat him as a super-max "gang leader."
This is in keeping with the dictatorship's official narrative, which is based on the Fox Network television series The Following, that Bill is a bizarre cult guru with a secret army of "followers."
Anyway, Bill apparently likes Loretto, as much as one can like any concentration camp, and he was so impolitic as to reveal the fact that he likes it. So now it looks like Bill will not be allowed to remain there, and when they finally do settle him in one place, some years in the future, he will be confined in a super-max like Marion or Florence or Pelican Bay lest his "followers" rappel down the prison walls wearing ski masks and carrying Martian ray guns to free him, or whatever lunatic paranoid fears some D.C. guy in a suit entertains about him.
Or pretends to entertain. More and more it's becoming pretty obvious that no one in the regime actually believes any of this crap. There is a distinct air about all this, of a nasty, snotty little boy pulling the wings off flies and burning ants with a magnifying glass. The abuse of Bill White has become nothing but an act of official sadism that is clearly gratifying whatever expensively suited and coiffured functionary has decided to make torturing this man his personal hobby.
Anyway, I will let you folks know whenever Bill lights long enough for some mail to reach him, maybe.