And as the young ones took their partners hands, they prepared for something tragic-death by waltz.

They were children, and yet, as their conformist masters told them to hold hands, to dance the dance of their superiors, they obeyed, their will power diminishing with each turn and graceful step. Each step was a step towards growing up, growing old, without opinion, without difference. Each move was identical to the others, a circle of beautiful repetitiveness. Those who watched over them were stern, yet smiling inwardly at their growing power, their control over the younger generation. Others, saddened, by watching the young have their will, their uniqueness, stripped from them, just as theirs had. No one was safe. They were a uniform, a uniform of black and white and no colour, no feelings. Nothing.