Time: Based on the increased heat, I'd guess sometime in the beginning of summer.
Location: Under my bed. (It's cooler down here and also a different angle to stare at my room from)
It's hot, interminably hot, as I write this entry I'm spending half my time trying to make sure that I don't sweat on the paper. Toilet paper isn't known for being very water friendly and I'm fairly certain that the brand that they provide us here even more so, Scott's it is not.
The increased heat has also made the guards tempers a shorter, punishments are up 50% from last quarter (note: quarter here is a rather arbitrary term as I really have no idea of how many days it's been). I've suspected for a long time but find myself increasingly certain, the guards don't beat us to fulfill any sort of quota, they do it, because they have nothing better to do. This prison seems to be for prisoners that the Empire has decided to forget to about. I was not given a released date or even a word about the possibility of parole. We're not subjected to forced labor like some other prisons; it's as if we don't truly no longer exist in the world outside these walls, we only exist here and have only each other and the guards who watch over us.
The guards wear no name tags and refuse to tell us their names, such questions usually being answered by a beating session. After a few weeks here I took it upon myself to name the guards. One of the guards, the one who brings us our meals, I've named Cookie. The first time I called him Cookie, I was treated to an extra long than normal beating which left me napping on the floor of my cell for nearly two days. After about the third time Cookie relented, partly because I wouldn't stop and partly cause the idea caught on, and everyone in the cell block has started calling him Cookie. I've even heard the other guards start to refer to him as that. I count it a small victory for myself.
Besides Cookie there three other guards who regularly patrol the area, one of them is a large man fairly obese, he is the main I've pretty sir the guards don't eat the same food we do, no one could get fat on this stuff. Another one is Irish if I'm not mistaken as he has red curly hair that practically explodes off of his head. The last guard is the shortest one of the three and is highest ranked, an odd dichotomy I think, made rather amusing by the fact that he seems to suffer from a severe case of Little Person Syndrome, as he snaps at the others at any perceived attempt to undermine his authority. I eventually took to calling them Larry, Moe and Curly. As one could expect these three stooges didn't take well to their names and were quite thorough in letting me know this for several days afterward but after one has been beaten a certain number of times, you become a bit jaded to it. Not to say it doesn't hurt like hell but eventually one gets accustomed to certain levels of pain. One of the prisoners has apparently become so jaded that he has taken to taunting the guards, this taunting lead to said guard pulling a muscle after rearing his arm a bit too far back. The prisoner went without meals for a day or so but I'm fairly certain he has no regrets. It is and remains a unique dichotomy we have with our guards, I can only assume that wherever we are is not easily accessible as the guards never seem to leave that they are almost as much prisoners as we are. In the end they are our tormentors yet also our comrades in arms. A very interesting contrast of opinions and positions, life is nothing if not ironic.