It enters first.
Before the man.
Before the thought.
A glance in the mirror.
Not at the face
at the applause rehearsed behind it.
Every word scripted.
Every silence a performance.
The room tilts,
not around truth,
but around the voice
that must have the last word
even if the joke isn’t funny.
Ego does not shout.
It stage-whispers.
It clears its throat.
It feeds on the nod,
the nervous laugh,
the polite “so true.”
And when it leaves
the man remains,
smaller than before,
like the punchline
without the joke.
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