Lodged within the bowls of Leavenworth, is the enigmatic Silverstein. As despised as he is revered, he exists as a neolythic throwback, to the days of man's, primitive instincts. His mythical status is legendary, and rarely spoken about, except in the hushed tones of inmate conversation. Much like the wise man on the moutain, he lives a life of complete solitude. With his discheveled, waist-length hair, and unkept beard, he very much appears the part. But unlike the wise man, his solitary existence is forced upon him, as punishment for his misdeeds. Enclosed in a pen of bleached tile, and drab, sanatized concrete, his every convience is within arm's reach. From the stainless steel of his automated toilet, to the cold, metalic texture of his shower. All in the name, of sensory deprivation. Or, as the Bureau of Prisons refers to it as, "No Human Contact".
Meditating beneath the glare of artificial track lighting, he finds its consistent glow more a nuisence now, than actual torture it was originally devised to be. Under the constant surveillance of video cameras and correctional officers, his every move is scrutenized. Like a human oddity in a carnie sideshow, it becomes routiene to be gawked at. At times, even comforting. Because in this segregated corner of " The Hole", the appearance of humanity, much like Haley's Comet, is few and far between. Even more so, when it doesn't arrive wearing a badge and uniform.
When meals are served to him, he dines not from a plate, but instead, from an indestructible, carbon plastic tray. Complete with matching utencils, which must be returned and accounted for when he is finished. He rests his food not on a dinner table, but on a cool, slab of moulded cement, which jets out from the corner of his cell wall. Examining his rations for signs of tampering, he samples their bland flavoring in defeat. Knowing full well that, even had it been tampered with, he's in no position whatsoever, to do anything about it.
It's a bleak existance. As bleak as the walls around him.
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