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❝ 228 days to execution: "Jack Folla, the DJ on death row. You say it’s absurd? No, brother, the absurd thing is not that I’m an Italian on death row in a maximum-security prison in the United States. The absurd thing is that you’re out there. That all of you are free and in a mess. Where’s your freedom, darling? In the concentration camps of those shitty neighborhoods they’ve stuck you in like cattle, what do you expect to become, honorable? They keep you alive only because you need to buy. Shopping advice? Screw it. And your first paycheck - when they decide to give it to you - will be sized up to buy the needs they’ve shot into your brain on television. You feel like you’re dying, and what do they offer you? A Magnum. And they have a girl with an anteater’s tongue licking it. Try offering her a creamy one and see where she sends you. So you’re scared shitless, but you joke and pretend nothing’s wrong. Pretend nothing’s wrong. Pretend nothing’s wrong. Your father is an alcoholic, pretend nothing’s wrong. Your mother is dying of cancer, pretend nothing’s wrong, pretend nothing’s wrong. Damn, maybe I have AIDS. Pretend nothing’s wrong. You make love to her and pretend nothing’s wrong, because you have nothing left inside, nothing, they haven’t left you anything, they’ve screwed you over, thrown you in and tossed the keys. Which of us is on death row? Me or you? Welcome to Alcatraz, darling."
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