Men have no sense of their own identity. They sell who they are to every bubble that surfaces to their attention. The streets are filled with citizens roaming to and fro as each mind tosses and turns to unfettered associations, conjuring an incessant flow of daydreams. It’s the great wall of the inner narrative that runs more or less of its own mechanical accord. Survival necessitates movement, movements encounter events, and events trigger knee-jerk reactions of utterly accustomed patterns of emotion. The cycles do not move upwards nor downwards, but rather turn on themselves, eat their own tales, and create circles that ensure that men continue to listen to these alien thoughts of theirs as if to the friendly touch of an intimate friend. Modern psychology would likely have you trust this conveyor belt of suspect objects that oscillate within the inner recesses of this brainy cavity. They would surely resent any encouragement to the idea that a man is not his thoughts and that he ought to learn to look upon them as a guard vigils in the night. Each thought is a stranger that enters his home without knocking or ringing a bell, for there is no door to regulate and police the good from the bad, and the bad from the ugly.