Then was the summer of our discontent. We would have been unhappy about it if we hadn't been on medication. You're never given a cure for depression; just a drug that dullen's your feelings so much that you just don't care. Granted that it works, but it also deadens the rest of you. You become a creature of pure ambevilance, which makes other's regard you as hateful and lazy. There's a whole score of such people, living behind closed doors, kept away from the world to save other's from their contageous misery. As a new breed of indiviual, we express our pains in other ways. Paintings are preduced, poetry is written and wounds are created. In our self-created prison cells, we wait for love to strike us. But we watch our Summers turn from Autumn into Winter and still our pain ticks by.