They can feel the silence, it's fingers pressing against thier back. Chokeing them. Draining the very life from thier limp forms. The emptiness,the death. The death of the imagination once known to the child of free. The paintings ripped, slashed, torn from thier canvases. The stories disapproved, shot down and rejected. Their spirit broken by harsh words and unreasonable reproof. The life, gone. No more love, peace. No more harmony. Just empty, plain, walls. No more childhood. Theyre grown ups now.