The choir of one conducts an archaeological dig of the self.
What else to expect other than massive truth bombs?
The head is the instruments of instruments, yet it can’t outsmart the amygdala. The prehistoric brain fires on all cylinders.
The inner-narrative searches beyond the mask anchoring down any Shakespearean stage.
The ego has the power to build and the power to destroy. Once undone, there are no lily pads to jump to next.