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The jazz softly brushing against my ears, in ecstasy, I get naked, open the windows, and expose my naked body to the 4am sun. Next, I sit, and open up the blinds. Now facing the mirror, I expose myself to the 6am murderers and the 4pm strollers. Everybody in-between (both ways of a clock), too.


Naked, having taken off my jewellery, at last, praying to my own God. No Jesus' here, only a man worshipping his past work, and the possibilities that its future holds. With joy I kneel down to my laptop, and perhaps with tears, I’ll close it.


A man sitting in a dark room, illuminated by the vague sun behind him, causing him to cast a shadow upon the table. Perhaps he has illuminated the shadow. The aggressive, sharp, bloody shadow of the mug. Steaming with anger, creeping towards me, who’s sitting in front of this man. In a two sided mirror, being able to stare through it. No secrets here. No suspense here. You already know the plot.


He stares about the room for a couple seconds. From afar, or perhaps too far into his own world

- I guess I’m not curious? Or perhaps too lazy to find an answer to questions? The fact that I’m asking questions proves that I am curious? The lightbulb sitting just above his head flicks on, flickers on, too. The air suddenly feels a little bit colder. Being able to feel my arm hair erect, and grind up and down his shirt -


And perhaps, in this activity, an answer flashes past, or not. Certain events are only participants in maximising ability to see a wider picture, parallel to your capacity. This little room, his own universe, the only truth is the ones that matter to him. Little proof here. Little science here. Only the first part of being a scientist. Intuition; gut feelings. Thats the truth. Trust your guts, don’t let yourself take over your conscience.


In another blink, the objects, the participants of the room, direct their energy towards the ceiling. Beyond the room, reigning over the room. The science, and physics of this room. A hill decorated with a cross atop, an all seeing eye. Protecting you. As long as you trust it. Live by it. Circling your life around the belief. In the same line, still, follow your conscience-with disregard in your belief. Two layers of an end goal there are probably more that I’ll soon be exposed to.


The rock, the symbol of the cross-with the enchanted skull in it. It may as well be jewellery. Perhaps it already is knelt down to by rich wives.


(A Sergeant Reads)

- Who did I speak to today?

- Well, I don’t know. A few dozen probably?

- Good. Keep it up.

(Sergeant Out)


The sun, yellow with its rays, refracted by the mirrors in the room. Thrown to in all directions, scratching the room with a


Almost waxed,



red contoured,

like old tags on my skin.

There’s always a black following it.

A black, black (death).

Like a plague;

taking over your life,

your sombre,





This man, still sitting in Room 1;

He is the man I don’t see when I look into the mirror. I stand across it, and look away. He in the reflection I cannot see, yet sense. As face out, I see people. A narrow path crammed with these half dead hermits. It’s like looking into a pigeon’s eye before you see how much it can hold.

There comes a point when they all become humans.

Flies, magpies.

You may think it’s all lies,

who else will watch you as you cry?

- I’ll look into the mirror. Looking at the same people, through the dim-lit corridor,


the man, looks into the same into the same corridor, and through a mirror far, far away, our eyes meet for the first time. A glimpse of a future self, a detachment from the room, yet connecting to every component like as the lead, and the plug sitting below the window. Perhaps he’s just an excuse for my overanalyses of the future, getting glimpses of it. A new one every day. A different mood, different idea, comes with a different projection. As the gun clicks in all directions into different skies, it slips out of my hand, drops to the floor like a pebble in a pond, with the fish, it sinks. A scattered splash, I lose my vision. The toxic pond of laziness, the inability of finishing anything, perhaps like this…


- Perhaps not. Sipping the mouthwash tasting shitty coffee (the one with the funky shadow), clicking my pen, hovering above the piece of paper like a hungry fly, resembling a vulture in its intentions. The ink strikes the paper, and I fly out of the city I’ve created myself. Yet, I don’t seem to be particularly happy about that either. But eh, it’s the way things go. And we go back.


Me-all, everywhere. You-all, everywhere. Fragments, organised like rhinestones across a piece

- A piece of what?

- I cannot say. I don’t know. Nowhere to be seen, disorientating on all fronts, a salad of paradoxical thoughts and characters. The water bottle turns into a metaphor for life, and we snap back out. Minimal in their ideas, seven images light up inside. Outside, I am alone, waiting for a coffee. Not my taste. Bad ideas. Weeping like a clown, the class clown, unsure of the causes for them, I still weep.

- It’s a shame you carry out a shameless and purposeless existence. Go look after yourself.

- Good luck to yourself.

The conversation flows, but I forget the rest. Perhaps it’s for the best. A detached version of a phone call. A lot scarier, a lot quicker.

Wherever the thought may end up,

here now, now be here. Sitting here,

coming, going, goodbye.


Just floating by.

And finally, here I am, sitting here, eating, enjoying the company of a partially blank screen with a splash of my faint reflection. Staring down to what’ll become me, and staring up to what your perception of me will be. They pour some more down, and I kiss the wine goodbye. They’ve left me, and left you this.


- Goodbye.

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