Pavlov serenades Dora

What is in the mind of Freud as he sits in his office in Vienna? We are left with but a vestige, a fog-enshrouded remnant, like a confused phantom at Stonehenge left to rail in futile expectancy at the cryptic moon. Could it be that we are all jumping through hoops to avoid tripping on our own baggage, as if life were not actually a stage, but instead, a circus?