Sometimes he wants to stop asking for more pieces of paper and pens. In the end, they just spill onto the floor of his cell or end up covered in words - Lewis Carrol's words, not his own (he never was very original, was he?).
"It's not like she'll ever read it," Jervis reminds himself as he crumples another letter, this one not even a word past the salutation of "Dear Alice", and throws it towards the nearby waste paper basket.