Owing to a sense of self that is convinced of the notion that he is special, and owing to the fact that every passing stranger is also ingrained with the same notion, the city lights are rivaled and muffled by the population’s vanity. Reality is naturally topsy-turvy, upside-down, unbalanced and in great disorder when people mistakenly value themselves above the mystery of everything else. Both sexes are endlessly looking at their reflections against every gleaming glass that holds their image. Men bicker with violent emotions and slippery tongues to give offence when all that is being addressed is trivial, menial and bearing no real consequence. When people love themselves more than they love anything else, they have no real love at all. When the madness of conceit and pride are disguised so deeply that men are not even aware, a subtle shade of insanity coats their faces like a gloss of make-up that will be very tricky to ever wipe clean. If whispers of this sort of truth can still pass safely through the eardrums and into some semblance of recognition to its veracity, then a man should appeal to himself at that exact moment and question whether he really knows himself, who he really is, and what he most certainly is not.