The Ego

The man stands up, swaying, bottle in palm, and gazes around the room as the noise slows down, and everybody's eyes on him. Men pull up their seats, willing to hear the story or the song or whatever. The old man cries with a wild disappointment in his eyes...

Where is that pothouse, deep within the high castle walls?. The pothouse is full of captivity, drinks and filthy laughter everywhere. The odd smell of alcohol and smoke is heavy enough in the air, and there, in the middle of the hell, is a giant fireplace and a silent bell. Subconsciously, someone in play, points at a bizarre looking outworn old man, and persuades him to sing his tale of “dancing with the dead”. Suspicious ones gather around, and the crowd of the crown begins to sing its rueful memories with a seriously unimaginable, dazzling harmony. The man stands up, swaying, bottle in palm, and gazes around the room as the noise slows down, and everybody’s eyes on him. Men pull up their seats, willing to hear the story or the song or whatever. The old man cries with a wild disappointment in his eyes… “…” We are exactly right here to fill in the blanks with our fear or courage which is lost ages ago indeed. And thanks god we still have some kind of ego…

Fear of the Dark

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