Was it a dream?

We are on a winding trail. It's rough and hilly and surrounded by thick trees; we can't see ahead. We've been plodding here forever. But there's another path off to our right, one that's straighter and easier and will get us to our destination sooner. I can't see it but I know it's there because every once in awhile, faintly, faintly, I hear laughter. And no one where I am is laughing.

Our leader doesn't seem to know where he's taking us, though many have asked. "Don't worry, he says, "It's all good. We'll be there soon." But we aren't there, we're not even close.

Some of us are growing impatient. We want to bushwhack through the thick trees and high brush that surrounds us, to find a better route. But others urge caution. There are dangers in the woods, unseen cliffs and looming boulders; humpalunkers and craddydoats waiting to pounce.

So we stick together, plodding, plodding. Patience has never been my virtue. "If only we had better tools," I say. "A drone to fly above us so we could see the way to that straighter path. Or a machete to cut another trail—any tool at all would be better than this."

"We will be there next week," says our leader, but few of us believe him. We think we'll be on this crooked path forever, that our destination is a mirage, that the image of that straight and easy path is just an image—and there never was and never will be laughter. But what can you do? We trudge ahead.

If only we had better tools. . . .