if the ego is “itself the projection of a surface”* and the outer limit of this surface is the environment, then I know myself by what I find there: a shit-ton of garbage. I am a trash maker, and this (gesturing to the ocean) is where my garbage goes. This consumer dysphoria describes a gothic imaginary, a trash mirror in which I can see my ego continuing to fragment long after my death: imagining all my books turned to flotsam, floating on the surface of the deep; all these chairs devoured by fungus; my glassware smashed and turned to sand; my clothes scattered over the dunes like shreds of sea-ghosts; my laptops, cameras, iPhones, essential-oil diffusers, vehicles, toothbrushes, blenders and all the packaging splintering into slivers of micro-plastic that will last ten thousand years. In this uncanny future my trash-ego is undead, a ghost living out a half-life of cascading effects upon the alien planet of tomorrow.

* Freud, S (1960) The Ego and The Id, W.W. Norton, p.20.