"I think I'm going out of my mind," Julian Assange told John Pilger at Belmarsh Prison. "No you're not," Pilger responded. "Look how you frighten them, how powerful you are."

A man walks past an artwork depicting WikiLeaks co-founder Julian Assange on a building near Westminster Magistrates Court
I need two pairs of glasses. I had to choose which pair stayed behind. I left my reading glasses. From here on, I couldn't read, just as Julian couldn't read for the first few weeks of his incarceration. His glasses were sent to him, but inexplicably took months to arrive.
There are large TV screens in the visitors centre. The TV is always on, it seems, and the volume turned up. Game shows, commercials for cars and pizzas and funeral packages, even TED talks, they seem perfect for a prison: like visual valium.
I joined a queue of sad, anxious people, mostly poor women and children, and grandmothers. At the first desk, I was fingerprinted, if that is still the word for biometric testing.
"Both hands, press down!" I was told. A file on me appeared on the screen.














Comment: At last!