The Dance of Borders: A Tale of Slumbering Nations and Their Walls of Comfort

In the great theatre of human mediocrity, where nations draw lines upon the earth like children marking their territories in sand, a new act unfolds. The appointed border czar of the American realm, one Tom Homan, raises his voice about the northern frontier - that imaginary line that separates two lands of the eternally sleeping.

Behold how they gather, these last men, clutching their petty securities! They build walls higher and higher, yet know not that their greatest enemy lies within their own complacent hearts.

The tale speaks of 19,000 souls, from 97 lands, who dared traverse the invisible line that men in their infinite smallness have drawn. They come seeking what the sleeping masses call "a better life" - as if life could be measured in the coin of comfort and safety that the last men so desperately hoard.

In their slumber, the masses speak of "national security" - that hollow phrase behind which they hide their fear of the unknown, their terror of that which might disturb their carefully constructed illusion of order. The appointed guardian Homan, himself a child of the borderlands, speaks of "special interest aliens" with the certainty of one who has never questioned the very foundations of his beliefs.

How they tremble at shadows while sleeping soundly in their beds of ignorance! They speak of security while their spirits waste away in the prison of their own making.

The tale grows darker still, as it speaks of those who profit from human desperation - the smugglers who extract their toll in golden coins, $1,500 to $6,000 for the privilege of crossing an imaginary line. And what of the pregnant woman, Ana Karen Vasquez-Flores, who perished in pursuit of this dream? Her story stands as a testament to the cruel comedy that men have made of their artificial boundaries.

The bureaucrats of Ottawa and Washington dance their diplomatic dance, speaking in measured tones of "shared interests" and "constructive relationships" - the language of the last men who believe that all problems can be solved through committees and careful words. They congratulate themselves on their wisdom while the river swallows more souls, while families from India and Romania meet their end in the cold waters of the St. Lawrence.

See how they clutch at their papers and protocols! These last men who think they can capture the spirit of human striving within their petty regulations and borders! They have made a prison of their own freedom, and call it civilization!

And what of Trump, the would-be architect of walls? He who would appoint Homan as his guardian of boundaries speaks of strength while revealing only fear - fear of the other, fear of change, fear of life itself in its raw and untamed form. The sleeping masses nod in agreement, finding comfort in the promise of higher walls and stricter controls.

Yet in this dance of desperation and death, of bureaucracy and borders, we witness the ultimate expression of a society that has lost its way. The last men build their walls higher while their spirits grow weaker, they speak of security while their souls cry out for freedom, they count their numbers while losing count of their humanity.

Let them build their walls! Let them draw their lines! But know this - the spirit of human striving cannot be contained by their petty boundaries. It flows like water, finding every crack, every weakness in their carefully constructed illusions.

As this tale draws to its close, we are left with a question that echoes across the sleeping lands: When will they awaken? When will they see that in their quest for perfect security, they have sacrificed the very essence of what makes life worth living? The answer, perhaps, lies buried beneath the weight of their comfortable slumber.