tired is Stalin, tired is Hitler.
Let's rescue Penile from gulag and unban him!
Day 4 in the Gulag:
Urine staining the walls, the wretched smell permeating from my decomposing cell mates. The rats nibble the remaining digits off of their bodies. Screams of agony are all I can make out from the surrounding cells. Across the crammed hallway, I can hear the beating of a prisoner of war from a Russian prison guard. That's what happens when you cry in the Gulag. In horror, I hear the sound of the guard's beating worsen to the point of the prisoner's skull being bashed in. The damp air fills my lungs as I take a heavy breath, knowing that it may very well be my last. I know that every day here, I breath in more and more of this poison known as death and decay. One of the bodies moves in my cell. Through the darkness, I make out a Russian guard clearing out the corpses to dump outside. Sometimes, even the guards can not stand the smell. Once he finishes, he comes over to me. He says something in Russian that I can't quite make out, "Вы запретили в течение двух недель." He leans over and pulls out of his pocket a piece of molded bread about the size of my thumb and hands it to me. I catch a glimpse of his name sewn underneath his rank on his armband. Tired is his name. Coincidentally, this is exactly how I feel here in the Gulag. Tired, hungry, hopeless. I await the day that I may possibly see the outside world again; yet, I know that the chances of that day coming are unlikely. I raise the bread to my mouth when a rat steals it from me, along with one of my fingers. The blood from my fresh wound brings a sudden realization to me. I will die in the next few days due to either disease or blood loss. I will never make it out of this hell hole. Never.
