"One summer’s day in June, a number of years ago, I looked out of my jail cell in England’s infamous Wormwood Scrubs Prison in London.
Craning my neck against the barred window, I was just able to see the corner of a large expanse of grass beyond the prison walls.
Compared to the drab grays that permeated my cell and the prison as a whole, the grass looked more than alive—it seemed to represent life itself. I closed my eyes and imagined running across the park, breathing hard, free to roam...” |
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