A foolish few of us keep fighting for independence. But bosses are out there. Sure savages, quick with their own designs. Yet I keep running from the bosses above — psycho-analogs, nonverbal monitors of sensory and motor operations standing up to view the repaired wall unit, hearing you read fibrous new copy, pacing in warrior suspense, smelling something burning, watering potted moss, falling asleep. When you listen closely the analogs are meddling, nudging nearer to a 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 ethicists, whom Freudians describe as facets of the superego mostly whizzing by shaking a ‘finger’ up in the brain and mumbling something half-received, half-worked-out for the moment — be tiny, be warned — there are tribal icons above superego facets, and their points of view are even more fleeting, harder to perceive as they’re fossils — given up to us like paste gems and gluey blobs, deliberately dulled into falsehood with real results! 

I wear them indoors.