The present is a prison, isn’t it? Things used to be different. Freedom was their middle name. Swarmed by chaos within and without, they recoil into states of reverie: about what might be or could have been. They remain ever so hopeful of the future, undaunted by unrealistic expectations. Who could have drugged them? Who would have done such a thing? They alternate between contentment and regret, indifference and ecstasy.