The smooth drone of tiny motors is the only sound that breaks the silence of an unseasonably cool early June morning. Nearly everyone is asleep, perhaps dreaming of a better time. A gracefully underwealming time in the future, when life won't be measured in gallons of gasoline or courses of treatment. But rather in bright bocci balls and frames of properly exposed film. Part of an understanding that we've now paid for all the sins we've commited and then some. And that the dark gray cloud that hovers over us should move on and let the bright sunlight touch our faces once more.