The sheep were at pasture. They stood, milling, queuing, just waiting for someone to wake them up. To show them their own cage, to let them know that they didn't have to be sheep anymore.
Were there even sheep cages? Pens, it was pens, sheep were kept in pens. Pens writing the manifesto, no typing, that would have been too simple. Ideas should be dragged from your mind, panicked and screaming.
He shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to think straight, to keep everything in order in his head. That was the price to be paid for thinking with fire and lightning, for knowing things that no one else knew. Fire was the way of the truth, fire. And when the cannon went off, the signal flare, that's when the revolution would start.
He watched the revolution of the bus tires as it sped off from the curb, pushing its way into traffic. The sheep were there, and they didn't even know what was coming. Coming or going. Going would be their unseen servitude, the hidden chains that enslaved them, that made them sheep. They would be shorn of their protection. Coming would be the new life. Harder yes, but better, more right. All that would be left would be a purer humanity.
The weight of himself, the weight of what he had was unfamiliar but comforting. It ran around him like armor, like amor, a burning love that would consume him. No one would see it coming, but everyone would understand. This would be a clarion call to the sheep, the blind, the deaf, the enslaved.
I'm doing this for you was his last thought, or maybe his first. He couldn't keep the thoughts straight anymore.