Prisoners are Citizens

Abstract

It's an ugly place. Even with subtle hints of spring in the atmosphere and the early-morning sun highlighting houses in the distance across the Hudson, there's something thick and rancid in the aura of the place. It's as if the colors of the few trees and struggling grass plots and stolid buildings have all been crushed and melded together to form a soupy, lifeless gray. Stone and rusted iron, shiny, razored concertina metal rolling across all the perimeters give the place an air of cruelty and constant suffering.

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