All advertising & donations profits are split down the middle with Charaties





I got a visit from one of my best friends this past weekend.  We laughed, we cried, we ate incredible vending machine food until we were one Red Vine away from pukage. It was glorious… like a little vacation… and I’d be lying if I didn’t say that her friendly face wasn’t desperately needed at the exact time it showed up.  But I’d also be lying if I said her visit didn’t fuck me up a little bit.  It took me about a week and a half to regain my bearings after she left… Recompose myself, so to speak.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on why her visit had hit me like it did and, being a man of reason, I was bothered by my inability to understand what had happened.  Then the perfect analogy presented itself the other day… while sitting on the toilet.

You know how when you are taking a dump, and it starts to smell like shit?  And how after a couple of minutes it stops smelling like shit?  Only it doesn’t stop smelling like shit because the actual smell of shit has vacated the room, it stops smelling like shit because your sense of smell has become acclimated to the smell of shit… and a chemical signal gets sent to your brain telling it to now accept the smell of shit as your normal operating environment?

(Author’s note: This theory is supported by absolutely zero scientific fact)

This prison is the smell of shit. My brain, which has spent the last year accepting the smell of shit as the norm, was momentarily thrown out of rhythm by my friend, who blew into town one weekend like a sweet-smelling breath of fresh air. But when she was gone I was left to the realization that, indeed, I was still wading in the smell of shit.

On another note, should any of you ever find yourself in the FCI-Sheridan visiting room make sure you try the microwave Double Cheeseburger.  It’s the most delicious thing you will ever eat in your life.

Be good to each other,

- Dante

Aside from being my mental lifeline to the outside, this blog is an effort to help provide my beautiful son, Orion, with a little support while I am away. Any profit generated by the Ads on this blog get split between him and a charity that builds wheelchair accessible playgrounds for disabled children.

Aside from that, my spirit pretty much survives on sincere correspondence from the outside world. Letters sent by anyone are more valuable to me than clean socks. Write me, and I'll write you back.

Dante Orpilla #49007-112

feel free to use my art, but please
consider a small donation
towards my situation.


On June 16th, 2010, I was sentenced to serve 28 months in a Federal Penitentiary, for possessing with intent to distribute a Class A narcotic. This blog is a visual representation of that experience. Please enjoy responsibly.


For the better part of my life I have operated under the beautiful assumption that mans greatest gift is his ability to create. And so I do. My name is Dante. I am an artist, a musician, a writer and, above all, a very proud father.

Please note that messages are sent in writing to Blackmarket Arts and due to his situation he will not be able to respond. If you would like to begin a correspondence, please write to him.

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