Blanketed in beds of roses, the “Dreamers” perpetuate their dream world. They slumber under their canopies of pink parasols and grand old oaks laden with southern moss, yet to awaken to the nightmare of war. But wars evolve out of someone’s grand illusion of artificial entitlement, an illusion inevitably shattered by the free spirit of human nature. The opulent red mansion in the background almost preemptively wears the stain of human casualty. The southern belle, that casualty of a lifestyle, shrouded in her layers of linen, seemingly without breath, poses perfectly still. Her husband, spiritually bound by brass and buttons, presents his pose of pride, head up high, while his horse looks down, like master over slave.