As the trumpets blare in the night sky, as the fog-ridden spotlights roam, as the banners emerge carrying the single message, WE -- as people below are magnetically drawn to this show, a unpredicted thing happens:
Someone shouts: WHAT IS WE?
Other pick up the shout.
And the banners begin to catch fire and melt. They drip steel and wax and the false grinding of hypnotic dreams breaks its rhythm.
The whole sky-scene stutters like a great weapon losing its capacity to contain heat. The sky itself drips and caves inward and collapses, and the trumpets tail off and there is a new fresh silence.
The delusion, in pieces, is drifting away...
The cover: gone.
Behind it is The Individual.
What will he do now?
Will he seek to find his inherent power, the power he cast aside in his eagerness to join the collective?
Will he?
Or will he search for another staged melodrama designed to absorb him in an all-embracing WE?
Will he understand he has the power to create a new far-reaching reality of his own choosing, or will he, once again, submit to the idea that reality must be concocted by the Group?
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