Ego death is the death by Guillotine

In a piazza, a crowd gathered with scattering whispers, forming several rings of circles, their gazes placed upon the center, a wooden structure with a blade reflecting the dazzling sunlight. Beneath the sharp edge, there lay a head covered by a sack, clamped between two thick wooden boards stained by droplets of blood, his hands tied behind his back. The spectators muttered,”It must be done.” An announcer, dressed in a white collar shirt and blue pants, with a horizontal scar around his neck, appeared from the crowd, the wood squeaked as he stepped on the staircase, reaching for the lever. Before he proceeded, he directed his stare towards the man, and asked,” Any last word?” The masked head moved slightly up a notch, shouted,” So be it.” The suited man pulled the lever and released the blade, as it fell atop, the shiny surface reflected the face of the crowd, there was neither excitement nor despair, but the sight of determination and respect. The blade severed the head with a clean cut. The crowd watched in silence, with every neck bearing a scar. “ No one can escape their ego’s death.”, they declared.