The Dance of Borders: A Tale of Sleepers and Their Mechanical Guards

In the vast expanse of North America, where the herd grazes contentedly upon the fields of mediocrity, a peculiar spectacle unfolds. The servants of order, those appointed shepherds of the masses, now scramble to appease their southern master with offerings of mechanical birds and steel horses.

Behold how they dance! Like marionettes on strings of fear, they throw gold and machines at the border between nations, as if metal could shield them from their own weakness. O, how the mighty have fallen into the pit of reactive existence!

Minister McGuinty, that most earnest of sleep-walkers, stands before the drowsy masses, proclaiming the deployment of mechanical eyes in the sky and steel-winged guardians. A sum of $1.3 billion - mere trinkets to please the coming storm that is Trump, the golden-haired harbinger of chaos.

See how they cling to their numbers and machines! As if the weight of metal could anchor their floating souls to the earth. They speak of surveillance while remaining blind to their own spiritual poverty!

In this land of the eternal afternoon, where comfort has become the highest virtue, the sleepers dream of security through technology. Sixty drones shall dance above their heads, two Blackhawk helicopters shall thunder through their skies, and towers of watching shall pierce their horizons - all to protect the slumber of those who dare not wake.

The border, that imaginary line drawn by the weak to separate themselves from their fears, stretches 8,891 kilometres - a distance that could be crossed in a single leap by one who has truly learned to dance. Yet they fortify it with X-rays and chemical analyzers, seeking to detect the poison that flows through their veins while ignoring the greater toxin of their own complacency.

How they tremble before the threat of tariffs! These merchants of mediocrity, these traders of trinkets, who measure their worth in percentages and profits. They know not that their greatest poverty lies not in their purses but in their spirits!

And what of their leaders? They fly like worried birds to Florida, bearing charts and pleading words, hoping to sway the mind of one who has already declared his will. Their parliament lies dormant, their prime minister steps aside, and still they speak of "progress" and "relationship" - those hollow words that echo through the chambers of the last men.

The premiers gather in Ottawa, these provincial princes of the sleeping realm, to discuss their response to the coming storm. They speak of economy and security, yet know nothing of the greater economy of the soul, the security that comes from standing upright in the face of chaos.

Let them deploy their machines! Let them build their towers! But know this: no drone can capture the flight of the free spirit, no helicopter can chase down the lightning of awakened consciousness, no surveillance can penetrate the depths of human potential!

As the inauguration approaches, the sleepers clutch their blankets of bureaucracy ever tighter, hoping that their offerings of technology and treasure will be enough to appease the tempest brewing in the south. Yet they fail to see that their greatest threat comes not from beyond their borders, but from within their own souls - from their willingness to trade greatness for comfort, aspiration for security, and wisdom for data.

Thus do we witness the dance of the last men, who believe that problems of spirit can be solved with circuits and steel, who think that strength lies in numbers rather than in the will to power. They shall have their drones, their helicopters, their towers of watching - but they shall remain asleep, dreaming of security while the world transforms around them.

The border shall be watched, but who shall watch the watchers? Who shall wake the sleepers from their technological dreams? The answer thunders in the distance, beyond the reach of their mechanical eyes, in the laughter of those who have learned to dance with chaos.