by Alina Udrea
You were not born. You were processed. That first shocked gasp for breath, that panicked cry that made doctors smile and parents weep with joy, was not the beginning of your story. It was your check-in. Your prison intake. Somewhere, far beyond the fluffy clouds, far beyond the reach of any telescope, a record shows your crime, your sentence, and the location of your detention. That location is here and the detention is life itself. Earth is not a free world. It’s your prison.