A foolish few keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. More savage, cultural implants, the psycho-analog, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read wiry new copy, walking home in idle suspense, smelling something burning, watering moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely they’re meddling, nudging nearer to your verbal core, editing prose, keeping everything tidy; above that, less of a presence, there’s one or more crisis managers descended from a family of mavens, whom Freudians describe as superegos mostly whizzing by silently shaking a finger up in the brain (if you can imagine...) and mumbling something half-received and half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — speaking of social implants, there are tribal warlords above superegos, and their thoughts will be even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given unto us like paste gems and glue blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood, almost!

I wear them indoors.