The Change
The get up order sounds at four thirty. I give my mattress to the prison guards. The bed is chained to the icy concrete walls of the cell. The prison speakers broadcast the Russian Federation anthem mixed by some DJs at top volume. The prison guards keep trying to introduce some innovations in their methods and approaches. It is deadly cold and only a roll-cigarette helps to get a bit warmer as well as to get another dose of sleep. A hidden roll-up, a dose of smoke and then some usual program — to lay some newspapers on the floor, to put some books under the head and lie down hoping to fall asleep quickly so that nobody glanced into the peephole. If anyone notices that a prisoner is sleeping at day, they will report an offence, will issue additional fifteen days in the solitary
