Two paths lie before the young men in this film: take the full time job with the better salary and benefits moving boxes from one side of a factory to the other, oblivious to what it is you're really doing, and if all goes well, in forty years you can retire and reminisce with the new crop of young men about the days in which you were free; or you can get it over with now, destroy yourself and the world around you, leaving some mark, albeit a violent one, on this otherwise indifferent system.

A world with no collective purpose is a world with no future. It demands fealty or it induces insanity. The small respites you obsess over—a comforting game, a pet, a hobby—become the only ways to siphon back the lifeblood that is drained from your system every day. Once those are trampled on, too, in a fit of well-meaning urges to face reality, to grow up, the only options are psychosis or lobotomy. 

We're left with the image of a band of high schoolers, wandering down the street with no pressures weighing upon them, kicking boxes back and forth as they become clouded in heavenly white vignette, and we sit in jealousy of their remaining freedom, ripe for the taking.