He lay back against the pristine white bed sheets, closed his eyes and tried to remember. It wasn’t always like this, he was sure of it. People used to see the world so differently. They used to have metaphor, imagery; they used to be able to talk about things without using governmentally prescribed vocabulary.

Nobody wrote stories anymore. Nobody sang songs. It was better that way, they had said. This way censorship was unnecessary; if you didn’t tell the stories no one would be offended by them.

He wanted to mourn for the loss of it all, but he simply didn’t have the words.