(Curtains rise upon a porch where two wicker chairs set lopsided from miss-use, skewing the two small bodies that set within the spacious seats. The boy to the left is one of frail form and thin static filled black hair that sets upon his head like grass upon a stone (Sir Borbory). The boy to the right is aglow with healthy composition, his hair nearly white and set with the mornings efforts at maturity, of which were forgotten by the evening (the time of the opening). Both seem in thought for several moments before one speaks.)

Borbory: Society, my fine friend, is a baffling display of historical residue, dragging along with it all mishaps of human error. The coalition of individuals in a singularity representation thereof. Why, then, do the components of one place isolate? Why are the streets of the suburbs silent but for machines and dark scavenging avians. Why are the very symbols of prosperity abandoned in the hours in which they could be enjoyed in order to gather more objects to accumulate dust in their hollow clefts? Why must a man abandon his youthful ideals of life and people, for sake of money and meal?

(The boy seated beside the sir Borbory lifts his tired gaze to the shriveled dark haired boy, his glance drifting to his companion.)

The boy: What are you rambling?

Borbory: But a dream I am unable to wake from.

The boy: Would you rather wake?

(Borbory lowers his glance to the IV in his arm.)

Borbory: No.