"I think of you, your picket fences, flower beds, holly bushes, your life measured by the alarm clock's tick, the car-pool rotation. You claim to be prisoner, but until you suffer the anxiety raised by the uselessness of decision, of desire, you are free. As I mentioned before, there is little need to control oneself here, except that it is degrading not to; if you don't do it to yourself, they will do it for you, that much is proven, and it will not be pleasant, that too is promised, guaranteed. You long to break out but comfort yourself with the structure you rebel against. You encircle the goods you are hoarding, all that you own, those damned privet-hedge definitions of what is yours and what is mine; your houses, cars, wives, children. That is why you are there and I am here."
From The End of Alice by A.M. Holmes (page 72)
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