Then the car ads will come, late at night when you’re watching the Sony movie channel, and you will see the smug egos,the complacent egos, the lazy, careless egos with their effortless show of superiority. They’re all having such a great time. Watching the egos, watching the egos. You could do a documentary about them, couldn’t you? Only it would be too damn boring. How could you possibly watch it? How could you bear to watch it? The antics of any particular ego are only ever of interest to that very same ego. Or to the lesser spectator egos that wish to be like it. The world is full of lesser, spectator egos that wish to be just like the glossy celebrity egos that they worship. All those lazy, careless egos with their apparently effortless show of smug superiority. Lost in their own narcissistic worlds. Engaged as they are in the ceaseless act of self-adoration. The illusion of freedom, the illusion of authenticity, isn’t that what it all comes down to? You can go through the movements of being a perfect little ego having a perfect little life just so long as you make very sure never to question who’s running the show, who’s controlling you. That’s the price you have to pay. Preening yourself, strutting back-and-forth, telling yourself good things about yourself. Creating your own narrative. That’s what the human race has been reduced to – we’re all spectator egos being controlled by some hideous parasitic life form. The inorganic beings. The dark shapes we never see. Yes I’ve got a rage problem – I freely admit that. I’m practically crying with rage – I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what to do with all my rage. ‘What to do with all this rage?’ I ask myself. I’m not practically crying, I am crying. Tears of rage are running down my cheeks. ‘I’ve got a rage problem, I’ve got a rage problem,’ I scream as I teeter around the kitchen, sweeping everything off the table when I can’t find what I’m looking for. Kicking the chairs all over the place. Doing my nasty little rage dance that I have perfected over the years. And all the while crying. Crying tears of rage. I’ve got rage issues, I say. ‘I’ve got a rage problem but it will be all right.’ Only it won’t. ‘It’s just a morning like any other morning,’ I tell myself. And it is. It’s nothing to get excited about, nothing to get worried about. I’m just having a rage attack, that’s all. ‘It’s a rage attack just like any other, nothing to get all hot under the collar about’ I say as I punch myself viciously in the eye. How is it possible for a human being to feel so bad?