The Wall is the Wall; it has never changed or evolved from the first day I conceived of it. In its unchanging state lies perfection: no part is different from the rest.

To gaze upon the Wall is to see it whole, as it first took shape in My mind.  Now it has always been, a closed form without beginning or end, both boundary and rampart that at once defines and compels.  What is harbored within or excluded without is determined by Me, the exertion of My will embodied in the unyielding substance that is the Wall.

Indistinct figures move beyond the Wall, but their nature is not important.  Within is as I wish it; what lies beyond may do as it will.  Those who live within the Wall may someday be expelled; those who dwell without shall never enter.  With the inviolability of the Wall comes the assurance of purity, which I will maintain.

Those within our realm who opposed the Wall have been thrown into disarray.  Their indifference to our security has provoked the wrath of those who understand My policies, and they have been driven from the government, which is now controlled by Me.  The purity of our people cannot be contaminated by those among us who would assent to its adulteration, who indeed were admitted to our realm only through the weakness of those predecessors who do not understand its importance as I do.

I stand upon the Wall and I gaze out into the wastes beyond, the lands of the people who are not us.  Then I turn and look to our realm, whose purity, I have begun to realize, has been tainted by the actions of those who are not truly like us, though they may pretend to be.  The Wall may be a bulwark against contamination, but perhaps some of those within it are now suspect.

Something must be done about this.  I will speak to an aide.

My own tower, which was built by and for Me, is taller than the government building I now occupy.  I accede to this, for observing the trappings of office is important.  Everyone knows that whether or not I am in residence the tower is Mine, for My name is engraved upon its face.  Wives and children have lived there; advisers still come to consult about the growth of My fortune, now in the hands of My sons.  In the citadel of governance, it is generals and counselors who crowd about Me, anxious to hear My thoughts on the tremendous forces at My command and upon which of our enemies I may order their fury released.

The priests and ecclesiastics propitiate me, declaring My principles harmonious with those of their own faith.  They know that this is not true, but their followers, they know, do not care.  The generals, trained to obedience, say nothing about My youthful behavior.  The calls of the thread-worn scholars do not affect Me; starved of funds and hated by those they would teach, they can but hurl imprecations from their undefended towers.  Those who cry news I dislike are shouted down.

As a young man, already in the fullness of My potency though not yet of My puissance, I built upon the chattels of My father, amassed in collecting rents from the poor.  Unsatisfied with such tactics, I pursued My fortunes in richer districts, where opulent residences and gaming establishments commanded acclaim as well as wealth.  My name became a watchword, My exploits remarked by the powerful and vulgar alike.  Foreign laborers toiled to erect My edifices; criers extolled My other conquests. 

 My sons I have installed in prominent positions within My business empire, though it is clear to all that they shall never rival Me.  My business interests are extensive; they cast a skein of cords binding moneyed interests to mine.  The nature of My affairs I share only with My sons, such husbands of My daughters as I trust, and the lieutenants whose fortunes are tied to Mine, who would fall if ever I fell.

At times in the fullness of My youth I suffered setbacks, of which I do not speak.  When questioned of them I lie, and when My word is challenged I rage.  In My drive for supreme office I promised various disclosures, but once in power I reneged.  In some quarters these inquiries continue, and a part of My power is expended in deflecting them, which angers Me.

I walk the parapets of the Wall.  Elsewhere I am conveyed, even over short distances, in vehicles of singular design, but My tour of the Wall is always conducted in solitary reflection.  The voices that drift up behind Me fade as the night wind whips My scarf into a long streamer.  Perhaps it is visible from the wastes beyond; a bright pennant proclaiming My creation as surely as if I had engraved My name upon it.

Greatness such as Mine gives rise to enemies, whose numbers have continued to swell in My ascendency.  Women are attracted by My power, just as the envious are driven to hatred and resentment, and it is natural that I should act upon such opportunities.  Those who would batten upon this are gnats, but even gnats can enrage, and in My anger I give vent to brief bursts of invective.  Scribblers study these writings for indications of My inner state, which is unchanging.

I gaze across the chill wastes, into which those who dwell wrongfully among us, many now caged, will in time be expelled.  The wind, unheard, stirs bare distant limbs; a moment later I feel the breeze ruffle My collar and briefly lift My own locks.

It is cold upon the Wall.  The attraction of young women no longer warms Me, and the anger I feel settles into My stomach not as a smoldering coal but as a core of ice.  Many of My ventures have foundered, responsibility for which I brusquely disclaim, and whose consequences must increasingly be managed by men I am compelled to trust.  Yet the Wall remains:  My supreme achievement, eternal from its moment of creation.

Built with funds from the public treasury, it was never held in My name, so could not be lost in litigation.  Nonetheless it is Mine, as even my enemies acknowledge.  Works emblazoned with My name may fall or be wrested from My hands, but the Wall will forever memorialize Me.

The wind rises, cold for those who can feel it.  The Wall does not move, for the gusts and jolts of the world cannot affect it.  Its nature is My own, whatever the turmoil of My daily life:  Pure, all-encompassing, self-contained, and unmoving.


The first sentence of the story is by Donald J. Trump; the rest is by the author.

Gregory Feeley
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