I fed this to AI and asked them to rewrite it with emotion. It’s not that much different than what I had written.

It was January 12th, 1978 and I was just one day away from freedom. After six and a half long years behind bars, even the thought of living in a halfway house felt like a breath of fresh air. I had gone before the parole board five times during my sentence, but my last attempt in October 1977 had been denied once again. My maximum release date was September 1978 and after all the years that had passed, I could wait another eight months.

But something inside me refused to accept this latest denial. I filed an appeal with the Regional Parole Board in Kansas City – the same people who had denied me in the first place. My chances of getting them to change their minds were slim, but I had a plan. I wrote to as many correspondents as I could and asked them to write letters to the parole board on my behalf. The list was substantial – a few hundred people – most of whom I had established correspondence with while in prison after becoming a Christian.

Two months passed and I was still waiting to hear from Kansas City. Prayers were being sent up to God continuously by everyone. In early December, my caseworker Mr. John Conte called me into his office. The parole board had called and said “Tell Thomson to call off the dogs. They had gotten the point.” Over three hundred letters had poured into their office supporting my parole.

On December 19th, my counselor came to my cell. “I have worked for the Bureau of Prisons for ten years and have never seen one of these,” he said, referring to the letter in his hands. The parole board had changed their minds and granted me parole with a release date of January 13th to a halfway house! I looked at the calendar and saw that I would be released on Friday the 13th. Jokingly, I suggested that I would probably get run over by a truck. But I’m not superstitious – any misfortune would come on the 13th; it came that night on the 12th.

Mr. Conte called me into his office again. “We have a problem,” he said. The Associate Warden, Ed Arbogast, had advised the warden not to allow me to go to the halfway house. Mr. Arbogast had been a guard at Marion, IL in 1965-67 – the years that I was incarcerated there. I didn’t remember him, but apparently, I had made an impression on him.

“No,” I said, “we don’t have a problem; I have a problem. You’re going home tonight; I’m staying here.” Dejectedly, I called Mary and told her the disappointing news. She asked me how I felt and I told her that I wanted to tear the place up. In the past, when I had felt this powerlessness before, I had torn the place up.

I tried to pray but it seemed like hopelessness had invaded my heart once again. Mr. Conte had said that my record showed that I hadn’t made it upon previous releases – why would this time be any different? He used the example of a racehorse that always lost – would you bet on a loser? But I told him that I wasn’t a horse – I was a man and men can change.

Mr. Conte said that in the morning, I would have to interview with Mr. Robert Thompson – the Halfway House Administrator – who would then make his recommendation to the warden.

Mr. Thompson was the son of a Baptist minister so at least he would understand belief in redemption. What could make a difference? Even I had to admit that my record wasn’t lying – after previous releases, I hadn’t stayed out long – but this time was different because now I was trusting in God for my future.

When Paul was brought before the Roman tribunal as a Roman citizen, God gave him the words to say and that had always been my trust in past occasions when speaking before judges or parole boards – God would give me the words to say.

After all, it’s not what you say but what the Holy Spirit does with what you say.

After our interview, Mr. Thompson did not indicate what his recommendation would be so aimlessly, while waiting for his decision, I joined a group of prisoners playing cards.

Received message. Here is a revised version of your story with a more emotional tone: It was January 12th, 1978 and I was just one day away from freedom. After six and a half long years behind bars, even the thought of living in a halfway house felt like a breath of fresh air. I had gone before the parole board five times during my sentence, but my last attempt in October 1977 had been denied once again. My maximum release date was September 1978 and after all the years that had passed, I could wait another eight months. But something inside me refused to accept this latest denial. I filed an appeal with the Regional Parole Board in Kansas City – the same people who had denied me in the first place. My chances of getting them to change their minds were slim, but I had a plan. I wrote to as many correspondents as I could and asked them to write letters to the parole board on my behalf. The list was substantial – a few hundred people – most of whom I had established correspondence with while in prison after becoming a Christian. Two months passed and I was still waiting to hear from Kansas City. Prayers were being sent up to God continuously by everyone. In early December, my caseworker Mr. John Conte called me into his office. The parole board had called and said “Tell Thomson to call off the dogs. They had gotten the point.” Over three hundred letters had poured into their office supporting my parole. On December 19th, my counselor came to my cell. “I have worked for the Bureau of Prisons for ten years and have never seen one of these,” he said, referring to the letter in his hands. The parole board had changed their minds and granted me parole with a release date of January 13th to a halfway house! I looked at the calendar and saw that I would be released on Friday the 13th. Jokingly, I suggested that I would probably get run over by a truck. But I’m not superstitious – any misfortune would come on the 13th; it came that night on the 12th. Mr. Conte called me into his office again. “We have a problem,” he said. The Associate Warden, Ed Arbogast, had advised the warden not to allow me to go to the halfway house. Mr. Arbogast had been a guard at Marion, IL in 1965-67 – the years that I was incarcerated there. I didn’t remember him, but apparently, I had made an impression on him. “No,” I said, “we don’t have a problem; I have a problem. You’re going home tonight; I’m staying here.” Dejectedly, I called Mary and told her the disappointing news. She asked me how I felt and I told her that I wanted to tear the place up. In the past, when I had felt this powerlessness before, I had torn the place up. I tried to pray but it seemed like hopelessness had invaded my heart once again. Mr. Conte had said that my record showed that I hadn’t made it upon previous releases – why would this time be any different? He used the example of a racehorse that always lost – would you bet on a loser? But I told him that I wasn’t a horse – I was a man and men can change. Mr. Conte said that in the morning, I would have to interview with Mr. Robert Thompson – the Halfway House Administrator – who would then make his recommendation to the warden. Mr. Thompson was the son of a Baptist minister so at least he would understand belief in redemption. What could make a difference? Even I had to admit that my record wasn’t lying – after previous releases, I hadn’t stayed out long – but this time was different because now I was trusting in God for my future. When Paul was brought before the Roman tribunal as a Roman citizen, God gave him the words to say, and that had always been my trust in past occasions when speaking before judges or parole boards – God would give me the words to say. After all, it’s not what you say but what the Holy Spirit does with what you say. After our interview, Mr. Thompson did not indicate his recommendation, so aimlessly, while waiting for his decision, I joined a group of prisoners playing cards.