The struggle is in turning 180 degrees and refusing to believe everything that the mask of your name swears by. Children lack proper masks, as the adults around them fashion the clay together and gradually wangle the young ones to wear them gladly. Once they are on and the sticky glue takes hold, children are initiated into the march of ants. Yet it is not so uncommon for ‘grown up’ men to wiggle in their seats as they try to look serious amongst the wary crowd, with a nagging angst tickling their hearts. They give in to a search for cures to the condition, or perhaps even answers to an arising question, but nonetheless, it is near impossible to do anything other than squirm. A man forgets about the glue, about the mask, and he takes his reflection in the mirror to be real. He forgets himself as he once was; before the mask, and before the glue.