the ego paces back and forth along the fence it has erected, sniffing for holes, for the scent of intruders. it polices this boundary out of animal habit, muttering stories and dropping word dust to keep itself warm.
do you like it? or does it disgust you to see yourself slobbering along in these circles? the fence is rusting and the gate is locked, yet you keep the hinges oiled and pray for release. it is all foolishness — the ego runs snarling at the sound of any visitor, scaring them off or at least keeping them so far that they must shout their orders. as if someone will come with a key some day. as if the key could come from anywhere but within this fence. this worn ditch. this awful pacing.
