Fact

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock—the hands of the old wall clock move inexorably. Hour by hour, day by day, as if time has any meaning here. The wooden benches are hard, the beds cold, the food is both. From afar, shrill screams duet with a out-of-tune piano—nothing new. In fact, nothing here is ever new or different. Only one event occasionally brings variety to the dreary life: the arrival of poor souls who come until they leave again forever. Thus, the days flow into each other, indistinguishable, until even the seasons quietly change their places—here, on Blackwell Island.