Imagine what it’s like to spend 20 years in a small brick room, with one window that looks into an empty hall, knowing that you are going to die. Denied anything approaching what we call life, you’re marooned in a brick-walled purgatory, with one twin bed, one toilet, and one sink. Your only friend: a bodiless voice through the vents. Some days people shuffle away, chained at their hands and their ankles, through the doors, towards certain death.
— I wrote nicely about Rectify last year.