Museum

They want to destroy what I have collected. Creations culminate in a collation of those things most precious and beautiful, but the evil ones do not appreciate this. They who are invisible to my mind desire destruction thereof. I can run, and I do; I flee for hours and hours, but no matter how far I propel myself I am strung back by the spawn of my psyche, a boomerang that vacillates between distance and sensation. How can I save my loved ones, how can I preserve my prizes? Indeed my subconscious is altruistic in the extreme, though my armies fight for me whilst my back is turned. Oh I do long to return to the time of peace, when I wandered the halls of my vast mausoleum and exhibited the existential enterprise as a matter of philosophy. Of pride.