The stage is set. The Grand Finale finally upon us, looming larger, only for an instant, than the myriad of emotions it represents. The camerinos are abuzz with men imparting plans and schemes, bemoaning, beseeching their words to the actors. Words thought to instill force and encouragement, words that betray and drip with the fear of the greatest ridicule. It is up to the actors to digest and excrete them with great quickness from their thoughts, so as to better focus in the challenge: The Grand Prize. The Achievement. The ignominy that awaits the losers will remain engraved on their skins and that of their followers through an unfathomable eternity of sorrow. Little does it matter to the self-inducted believers across the orb. They will live a week of grandstanding bravado, accusations, inflammatory words and mockery, even the rare moment of introspection where for a fleeting second the sense of the absurdity of it all will shoot like an arrow to then be gone. They will compose themselves and resume their antics in an escalating paroxysm of fury that will find its climax next week. And when it’s gone, whatever the result, the inescapable sense of hollow will subside. That will be a time for intoxication and bestiality, until a new challenge will bring back illusion to their lives. The carrousel will turn again, to the relief of the many.