Forlorn, pale, banal, crestfallen, Dora walked up the stairs of her home. A large, old home. A solid home. Made of brick, timber and reinforced with different types of concrete. A shabby, flaky grey-yellowish-light-brown facade typical of the buildings off the Via Foria in Naples. Napoli. Italy. Italia. She wore a old dress; once it had been designer; once it had been fashionable; now, it was just an old, blue dress. She’d just parked her Fiat in her small garage, a luxury for the area, and somberly progressed out into the main hallway that led from a large front door to a staircase. Opposite the garage, another apartment, stood empty, and barren reminding her of her daughter Chiara. Upstairs she had a massive space, full of every manner of odds and ends to herself. Two apartments, three kitchens, three floors. Old Italian money turned, by degrees, petit bourgeois…
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Prison As Power 