The situation is hermetically sealed. The soil is such that new seeds can rarely grow. Every boy and girl is droned to drool for hundreds of false desires, and so the soil of their minds, one to the other, remains the same. Masks of pleasure and pain are worn in alternation and the child runs between opposites in every waking hour. A bird of flight will glance down to the sight of humans marching like ants, but zoom to the level of a single man and you will find his inner march of mental association to be of an even greater repetitive bore. The sameness is daunting, and any effort to escape from habits proves quite gloomy. Yet amidst each flock there are eccentrics that shout about newness and novelty. It would seem clear to the bird of flight that only a lonely road, free from the rhythm of the herd, would provide a man with any possibility of escape from this cloud of flustered thinking we call a mind. A road with signs inverse to the ground, with steps like a ladder, opposite to anything hitherto known.