Prose

Pedants and Pedophiles

For once, the topic on post-a-day triggered some of my juices, and I decided to write on it. Why it excited me is because I had a teacher who, I didn’t realise it when I was small, was a paedophile. His name was Tek Chand.

I was a cute boy, though I do remember having a starkly negative self-perception and often feeling dejected at what I saw in the mirror: I wished I looked good enough so Anuradha (or Kanwaljeet, or Swati, or Pallavi, anyone) would love me. But Tek Chand did love me. He would often grab my wrist and twist me into his embrace and smack my cheeks till they turned red and bruised from his moustache. He would relish inviting me into his room when he was alone, and I am sure he got massive hard-ons thinking about he was going to devour me.  I, in my naivete, thought that he was one of the rare teachers that I had a positively good impression upon, though I did not respect him much: he was crappy at science, the subject he taught. He even awarded me marks of my choice (of course, I was alone with him in the checking room) and I got a whopping 98. I was happy.

It was about 10 years later that I realised what his intentions were. Thank god I still have an unharmed asshole, and a happy psyche, all in all.

On the contrary, there have been beings in my school life who did some justice to their tags. It is jolly inconsiderate of me to forget his name! Damn. Oh wait, it was Kashyap. On second thoughts, he wasn’t too special either. Maybe my best teacher was my grandfather. On the head. . . I hit the nail, that is.

The Lights Far Away

Tonight, as he looked into the horizon, he didn’t feel it in a space far away. Instead, he felt that he could touch it with his hands if he stretched them a bit. The darkness of the night had effaced all boundaries, all distances.

An epiphany was all it took to resolve his conflicts, to provide them a name, a structure, a definiteness that would eventually lead its way into a solution, sooner or later. He felt blood drain into his head, into his eyes, so he could see clearly all the things far away, some lights he never had noticed, some clouds that had just appeared. Like the rain clears from the air its haze, the rush of blood into his head washed away his sorrows through nice, unruffled channels. For in that moment, he was the king of his world, and for that moment, he’d kill his the rhythm of his life.

As the blood solemnly withdrew from his head, to let his hopeful delirium wane away into a quiet sleep, he realised a pair of eyes, filled with derision, were looking at him from a corner in the dark. He let them be, and lay his aching body on the bed, to settle into what seemed like an endless sleep.

When he woke up, it was still night. The hands of the clock had dragged themselves sluggishly for two hours. His penis was erect. In a state of merciless discord, he looked around in the dark to invoke some sense into his situation, for he knew not where he was. It took a while before there was enough blood in his head to allow him to make sense of things.

He remembered that he had found a solution, or at least a way to it. He looked out the open window at the lights far away. The answer lay somewhere on the horizon, he seemed to recall. The darkness was imposing itself on him now, he felt his head would burst any moment.

Then he remembered. Indeed. . . He just had to stretch his hands out a bit, go for the horizon, and no matter how much they told you couldn’t reach it, it was there, close enough for those who dared. So, he puffed his lungs with the cold air of the night and looked to Athena for courage.

But when he finally gathered the courage to stretch out his hand and touch the horizon, he found it was as distant, as cold as ever. All he was left with was the hope of a calm morning.

The Rooftop

I was 15 years old then, getting more erections a day than the hair on my chin. I was extremely sensitive to detect any possible masturbatory material. For that, however, I had to spend as much time away from my old men as possible. I lived in a small house, where no one slept at the same time, not when I was awake anyway. So I frequented the roof a bit too much. And like a vulture from afar, I looked for something to jerk off to in the windows and backyards of the other houses. Anything, anything at all. Armed with a monstrously horny imagination, I could transform a witch-like granny into a sex-kitten, you can very well imagine what I could do to a cleavage.

But it wasn’t the only thing I did on the roof. Nerds also need their daily dose of calculations. So I played cricket against the wall, and sometimes when the phantom matches weren’t interesting enough, I’d throw my ball to a courtyard with a good chance of a fleshy encounter. And then go fetch it.

I now need to explain to you how our little community of houses was planned. It was an ancient plan, much influenced by the close-knit structures of the Harappans (without as advanced facilities for drainage). Take a 20×8 rectangle. Divide the length into 5 equal parts and make columns in the rectangle. Now the rectangle consists of five sub-sections each of dimensions 4×8. Now cut the four into two. Now slit the 8 into two. We get 20 sections of dimensions 2×4. That was one building in a colony of 20 buildings. Each building had two floors, meant as two separate residences. The lower one was compensated with a backyard, the upper one with a roof. There were no balconies. It was a very gloomy and ill-thought piece of construction indeed. But what made it such proper hunting grounds for me was that the bathrooms were, as they couldn’t be anywhere else, on the backside of the houses, with clean beautiful windows, most of which were covered by some heavy drapery or in the most pathetic cases, newspapers. But often the drapery would slip just an inch for me to have a peek at some naked figure getting all wet. It would sometimes be very disturbing for me when the person I’d just jerked off to turned out to be a man, something I’d get to know only when he entered the room without the curtains. Otherwise, it went smoothly.

Such innocent perversions, you would say, remembering your own voyeuristic adventures of the past. Yes indeed they were, till they went a bit wrong one day (as was expected: the note had to have a plot). Not too wrong, for I still savour them, and that is precisely the reason I share them with you today.

There were two women I particularly fancied: the 40-year old with 36-B cup size who lived next door to me, to whose roof I had unrestricted access (in fact, it must not be excluded if we are to consider all the vantage points), and the 32-A cup sized recent mother of a girl who never wore bras, till I pushed her to her limits of getting her breasts ogled at. I need to draw a chart of my grounds now. I threw the ball at the wall, it bounced back to me, whence I batted. So the 40-year good-oldie lived on the non-striker’s end and the braless-wonder was the wicketkeeper. And a good many months it took me to realise I had one! That too braless! Top it with a thin blouse, and a carelessly worn sari, because she was so comfortable there, alone with her baby-girl. Not that I wasn’t alert enough, the reason was that she didn’t use the roof as idling grounds till it was winters, and we all know how much Indian women love the winter sun.

So it was indeed one sunny winter noon when I heard the ever so erotic jingle of a dumb rural woman’s bangles. Bangles are usually worn by newly married Indian women, and it is a sign that they are fresh and can’t get enough of their husbands. And the sun blinked! And my heart pumped deliriously! The next ball was a bouncer left well alone to climb the five feet high walls of my roof and go purposefully to the next roof. And I climbed the feet high (incredible design) and one brick thick extension at the base of the wall originally meant to be used for harmless and useless flower pots.

It was a desert-rose! In a fiery red sari, she first flashed her dumb eyes at me, laughed ever more idiotically and with erotic promptness jumped out of her cot to fetch me the ball. I didn’t even utter a word. She picked the ball, and what follows is the one of the most relished moments of my adolescence.

Her dumbness was comparable only to the on-rush of my hormones, sharpening my focus, prepping the system to its most alert, and pumping my teenage over-working dick to its hardest. She had the ball in an outstretched hand, but how I remember that detail is beyond my understanding. You see, her nipples were bare, through the thin blouse of course. Perfect brown circles with perky ends comparable in size to undersized-peas (pardon my lack of imagination). And oh how they gyrated! And how many bouncers I bowled that day! I’d become so audacious by the third attempt that I jumped the wall, offering my excuses for the witless jumping ball, and having as many close encounters with the reservoirs of erotic energies as possible.

I couldn’t keep any scores the next few weeks. An occasional cover-drive was all I could muster, the rest of the time spent devising creative ways of getting on to the roof with the better set of balls. I had to do small talk, the flirt in me inexperienced then, but never short of guts. I would go over to her roof now after a bouncer, pretend to play with the little girl, while getting eyefuls of her breasts. I would ask stupid questions, like, is she a girl? whether it was too bright, or too hot? Anything that my cranium could cook up, I spewed it out, only so I could stare longer at those wonderful nipples.

You know what the real prize was, though? She occasionally fed the baby. She was a very shy woman, and one who knew how many eyes were desperately wanting to have a peek of those nipples she so preciously, but not so intelligently, guarded. She would never feed the baby till it made a real ruckus and she had just settled into the cot and didn’t want to go downstairs. But still I caught her in the action twice. It was easy, you just had to keep the noises carefully monitored, any abrupt shush marking an exposure. I did catch her feeding the baby a lot of times, but mostly she had her back to me, and only on two instances did I get lucky enough to have a peek at her nipples without a colour filter, standing in elegant contrast to the creamy golden-white skin around them. (I think it is needless to tell the intelligent readers explicitly that I had by now a carefully selected camera position which obscured me enough while at the same time giving me a good view of the seductress. My effrontery, sprouting from my balls, was the second layer of disguise I had on. Needless to add, I jerked off in this camera position a lot of times.)

II

The surprise masturbation package exhausted one day as abruptly as it had come. It was nearing the end of winters, and the time you could enjoy in the sun was shrinking drastically every passing day. But it wasn’t the sun I had an issue with. It was the bra she had invested in: a cheap 32-A sized piece of cloth in no way worthy of touching those wonderfully crafted nipples, let alone snuffing their well-deserved amount of sunlight.

But it was an experiment to her, so she had bought just one. So I would wait eagerly for the days when the bra would be on the clothes’ line. I shunned whatever attempts I made at decency and only the sight of the brown nipples would relieve me now. It went like this the next few days, till the time she concluded that bras were indeed useful inventions and she must have more than one. She got two more. I remember the brands, still.

Ladylike: the one with the thickest texture. It was her best piece, without a doubt. Oh yes, much as I detested her wearing the bras, I couldn’t contain my eruptions when I laid my hands on them, feeling them completely, the bras that still kept in their intertwined fabric some memory of her nipples, some faint fragrance I could hold on to. In my desperateness, I imagined the unmistakable odour of detergent to be her stench, and wasted my day’s last sperms fantasising how I would violate her on the roof while her daughter lay there crying, or sleeping (when I wanted peaceful ones).

It was during one of such feeling sessions that I felt the urgent need to leave an impression upon her life, come as close to her as possible. Enter her bedroom, fiddle carelessly with her boobs like I owned them and she couldn’t do a thing about it, sniff her body, undo her last layers of clothing, get her naked in front of me. Make her spread her legs and hurt her vagina with my fingers. I wanted her to know that I wanted to fuck her, and that I did it every night. I wanted her to know that I was hearing her every breath from this side of the wall, and that she couldn’t escape me, much as she wanted to. I wanted her to know that I fucking existed. I tore the bra to shreds…

I’d done something irrevocably stupid. There was no one other than me who was the suspect. I had to get rid of this bra, and where could I? In my panic, I rushed across to the opposite roof, and tossed the bra to the next roof. My chest was now too small to contain my heart, and I knew it was the dumbest thing I could’ve done. But I couldn’t do anything about it now, the dividing wall on this roof was too high to climb and the risk of getting caught with a torn bra too much. I rushed downstairs. I prayed to god that night. I didn’t even masturbate.

***

Two days later, when I was beginning to think that no one had noticed, the two days I hadn’t gone to the roof, the two days I hadn’t touched my dick, she came to my house. Bangles a-jingling. I was petrified when she entered the main lobby where on the divan I was lounging. She threw me a sidelong glance, not looking at me directly. She sat on the sofa not too far from me, opposite my mother (of course they knew each other – it is a middle class Indian community). I was swallowing spit and blood, my spintcher so loose that my asshole was wide as a trumpet. My immediate concern was that my mom could hear my heartbeats. I couldn’t avert my gaze, no matter how hard I tried.

She started innocently discussing salwar designs. My heart was beating so loud I couldn’t properly hear what she was saying, though I could make out it was about the salwar from the way she was moving her hand about in the air. She adroitly moved to discussing her baby. I was impressed by her cunning. I could see she’d come prepared. Next she’d move to the roof, then to me and then to the incident. I lost all hope.

She then started discussing children in general, not really caring for my mom’s replies. The plan was there, it was just a bit different. She threw me a gut wrenching glare, turned back to my mom and calmly remarked, “The kids that appear so quiet and docile on the outside are actually a lot worse than the bold ones.” Pause. I looked away, with a violent jerk of the neck. She didn’t say anything else. My mom agreed like a good host. She was torturing me and relishing it. She knew it would be no use creating that mountain when an anthill was more effective as a torture. She waited. My mom dutifully continued talking about children. She made her stop with a nonchalant hmm. I turned nervously, she threw another glance at me, smiled at me, and said, “You haven’t been playing on the roof, I thought you were sick.” I couldn’t reply, I couldn’t feign a smile. “Such a shy boy,” she said to my mom, with a genial smile. Then, without waiting for my mom to finish, she rose up, and said good-bye. My mom followed her to the door.

Then my mom returned and we had dinner.

Art and Hopelessness

I felt a tremor of happiness run through me when I first saw that my blog was finally being read. Then, I felt convulsed. This tremor was the contemptible electrical signal that marked everything wrong with my motivations of pursuing art. Or maybe, it’s the artists who are to blame.

What it told me was that I coveted the desire to be appreciated more than the desire to create.  I wrote for an audience, that is, and not for myself, or for the sake of art: “the good and the beautiful”. Whatever was written by me was glossed and decorated so it be delectable for the readers, howsoever imaginary they might be. Hence, everything I wrote was mendacious, and since writers pride themselves on telling the truth, I was nothing but an abhorrence pursuing a sacrilege in the name of (self-proclaimed) art.

But then, who is immune to this feeling? I’m sure every artist goes to bed insecure that he is nothing more than a base whiner who does nothing better than earn money (not a lot of it anyway) for having himself heard, that he is intellectually crippled to the extent that he cannot even realise how worthless he is. The next moment, however, would return in him a breath of self-assuredness, depending upon his achievements maybe, and he would soon be stroking his vanity by comparing his intellect with the masses. This is the cost of having a higher conscience. Every artist is cursed to suffer immense torment over just the tag of being one.

Essentially it boils down to self-worth, and the tender sentiments in this regard can be mutilated to shambles by just a passing comment, as they often do. It’s difficult to keep a count of writers, potentially as good as Philip Roth, paralysed because a passing comment slit the arteries of their motivation whence bled all their self-worth.

(I have to confess here that this post has lost direction a bit, but that often happens with first drafts, and I won’t care to edit it, I already have a zillion projects waiting to be edited ‘just a little’. In your face, my filthy readers, see how I am indifferent to you!)

The shameless, or the appreciated, meanwhile, keep pursuing the elusive goal – the goal that must not be ever reached for it would destroy the real intent behind any work of art (for the intent is nothing more than pursuing the elusive goal). In the process, they discover many a truths about human nature, through projecting themselves on others, through empathising with others, and through musing about the purpose of life. By doing this, by making themselves miserable everyday and by keeping at it, they open to the perceptive fellow human eyes a window to their own souls. Of course they demand attention like lovers, but that is just a small charge for a service very appreciable indeed.

Written in Dust: The Keyboard Speaks

“The faintest ink is more powerful than the greatest memory.”

As I was dusting my keyboard yesterday, I noticed a more stubborn type of dust on some of the keys, which I didn’t rub off: it was precious. Why? Because it told a very interesting tale…

Of the keys in the alphabet, Q had a significantly greater covering of the dust than any of the other keys, most of which were clean. TAB was a bit cleaner than the CAPS LOCK key, indicating clearly the usage of these. So I will try to draw inferences out of the patterns now.

Inference 1: I am mostly a cheerful person.
) was cleaner than (, indicating that I’d made the happy face 🙂 more than the long face :(. A little less used symbol was |, which means I’m more often sure of my emotions (I make the 😐 face when I am confused or unsure of what to say).

Inference 2: I am a textbook grammarian.
There was dust on the top part of the ‘ button, which means I press it with SHIFT more than without. That is, I use the ” more than ‘. Also, my SHIFT buttons are very clean indicating my love for the correct case. * was mostly unused.

Inference 3: Though I’ve been in a long-distance relation before as well, it’s from my current girl that I have learned how to kiss on chat.
The dust on * was wearing thin and looked polished. : ?* is how I kiss.

Inference 4: I have a love of the exclaimed!
Of all the numeric keys, 1 was the cleanest. Unsurprisingly, I use the ! mark a lot.

Inference 5: I am an escapist as well.
No, I’m not. I just press the ESC key a lot. Maybe I am, but the key has nothing to do with it, I bet. Or maybe Lacan was right: our unconscious is structured like language.

The Reform

It’s been a long time that I’ve been complaining of inertia, feeling good only about my likeness to the antihero of Notes from Underground when he said that a decent and intelligent man was forced to not take any steps at all.

My Muse is a druggie: she comes to her job only in patches, and when she does she charges a huge sum of attention for her job (which is hugely shoddy anyway), rest of the time she’s out partying with the Muses of other wannabe writers. Today on, however, she is going to be regular: if she doesn’t come to work, the work will go to her.

My room had been a crime scene till yesterday, looking as if dark marauders had come and ransacked it: clothes strewn everywhere alongside juice cartons, chocolate wrappers, biscuit wrappers, chewing gum wrappers (yes I eat them so much that they are sizable). My life was a chaos of similar proportions. I had to work on my thesis and with the deadline staring me in the face I turned my eyeballs inwards and did some soul-searching. Guess what I found! A coupon offering discount on my soul (70%) valid till 31/12/2011. Gosh.

Instantly, I picked up my bucket: washed my clothes and myself too. I picked up the litter, and threw it all out: it took three outings (I have a small square room 8 ft by 8 ft). I cleaned my keyboard (and I have noticed some really cool things in the patterns of dust on my keys, which will be elaborated in the next post), my monitor, my table, leaving the spider webs to be dusted away tomorrow first thing in the morning. I joined postaday. I installed sticky notes. I wrote three notes, one of which was redundant. I washed my water-bottle and filled it and it shines neat on my table. I cut the  lid off my shoe-box and will now use it as a dustbin. I bought pens. I arranged my books. To reward myself, well, I ate chocolate cookies.

All this is the result of an inexplicable yet (or, hence) intense lack of thought and a stupor that clogged the very veins of my motivation, and thence action. Today, the levee broke, and guilt like water gushed in and filled my lungs with an ache to work, and now I breathe the sweet air of a satisfying day.

The dam’s been blown to smithereens for good. This time, I am sure.

The beginning. Yo.

I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and loathing that I haven’t been writing enough, considering my aspirations. I am, through this post, agreeing excitedly to the pop promise that I will blog regularly – write a post everyday. Either that or I jump off my roof. I don’t kid. I never joke. When you laugh at anything in this blog, you will be laughing at me, you cruel (wo)man, keep that in mind.

(Thank you, TheDailyPost :?* I want you to bring me visitors, and I promise to give their greedy eyes some entertainment everyday.)

Rain Dogs

I sometimes wanna dance and sometimes I wanna type so fast that it hurts my fingers but I cannot I just cannot because the words don’t come to me, so I go slow and decide to paint it rather, patiently, but I suck at that too. So I swallow my tongue and turn my eyeballs right in and churn out what I see and taste inside of me. But it is all crap. Then I decide to read some and get myself inspired to write. And the words I read feel like shit and I want to paint the pages black, which would have a beauty to it, unlike the patterns of shit they scribble so thoughtfully in there, hoping to make it smell like eau du cologne. Them morons. So I just sleep peacefully because it’s no use getting angry over the indelible mistakes of someone else and break my things.
I do wake up next morning and take a crap. Sometimes I don’t. And when I don’t I feel like crap the entire day and want to puke all over the bastards who look so clean, even when they’re so full of shit inside. Sometimes I just let them be. Other times I come back home all disgusted and write bad words about them in a notebook and feel even more crappy writing crap about crap, which is not characteristic of art, but is surely a damnable characteristic of what they call art.
I sometimes forget what I was going to write and then I start to tremble and my spintcher gets all woozy and loose and I leak crap like it was blood from a vein. I come back to my room stumbling and woozier than before, but only this time I am really horny so I take my dick into my hands and shake the piss out of it. I feel a tiny bit relaxed after this but I still want to rack their brains into a freezer and then crush it into pieces, them morons.
Then there are the snobs, them fucking snobs. They think they gotten what they have by virtue of deserving it. My hairy ass they deserve it. They don’t deserve milk from their mommas’ breasts if you ask me. But who asks me, I just rot in my room alone scribbling dirty words on a white sheet of paper. Sometimes I wanna kick their face in, I wanna burn their houses and set their eyes and tongues on fire, the fucking snobs. I see them everywhere, even the guy in the mirror is a damning snob that bastard. I wanna kick his face in too. I did that once, only hurt my own hand so I don’t do it anymore. No use breaking myself over someone else’s flaws of character.
Now I bloody well can live with the world if these were the only kind of filth it had. But oh no wait! You gotta have all kind of crap to make it the best democratic toilet in the whole of the universe, which I am very sure is another giant shithole, waiting to be filled. There comes the real slimy shit now: the retards. Each one a unique shitflake, that is what they are. And they don’t even know that the joke’s on them, they fucking give me Goosebumps. I cannot even punch their face in because the shit will only splatter all over me, in my eyes and on my face and that is something I don’t like because you cannot look shitty even if you are full of it. The retards was what I was talking about but I cannot, since they are so damn laughable that no one wants to talk about them in a serious conversation.
And I assure you that it’s in your benefit to mind the seriousness of this conversation, you shitty listener.
Some nights I wish I was a rain dog, so I could forget the way back home and go sleep under a calming benign sky with the stars looking at me. Them fucking lucky rain dogs, they crap so happily.

The Death of David

Sometimes I wonder if you’re a mere figment of my imagination, for only beauty imagined can be so perfect, so uncompromising. I have been a dreamer, an actor in those dreams, a self-conceived hero of extraordinary comedies, but I had to yield to your magnificence, I could not help but dream of you, you who made me a dreamer in my dreams. I would be lying if I said I’m going to accept your frailties. No, I’m not. Yet I’m going to accept you, oh Abishag, my perfect queen.

For centuries I have been cold, the loveless winter refusing to relent, my world a foggy morning and my heart a drumbeat, waiting, ticking, for your warmth. You are the moon of my night, the wings of my flight.

You make me a fool, you make my past a careless indulgence, but for the dreams of a future with you I will kill the soul of my past. I have no cushions to rest my head upon, no bed of roses, no past so sanguine, but I sleep now in the sky upon the clouds of your breath. You have made me immortal.

Lie next to me, let me praise your beauty, awful, distant.

Let me drown in the sea of your hair, each thread worthy of my life. Let me live in the shadow of your eyes, cool and moist as a pacific breeze, protect me from the cruel harsh sun. Let me breathe in your breaths, and make me yours to the bone. I tremble to think of your lips, concealing a voice so criminal, breaking hearts as you break a tone. The light of your eyes petrifies me, my sight a slave to your wishes.

Why, my queen, can I not see anything but your face? I will not defile you, not even in thought, you who I enshrine.

Oh my king, your orders my fate-line, I protect you from the devil, from the stygian cravings of lust.

No, Abishag, I dare not the fire of your beauty, give me back my freedom, it is my humble demand.

You had to but think of it, my lord, here are your eyes, your thoughts no longer mine; but I warn you again, the flesh is a well full of waters of crime.

I dare not look into your eyes again, but my world is you, you are my vision, you are my choice. I choose to die in the desert of your body, drink myself to life at the oases that are your breasts. Marry me, queen, I beseech, I beg.

Oh king, against your blaze I cannot stand, but I cannot bear the wrath of the Gods, the scorn of the eighteen to whom you have been sworn.

Let them marry the blade of my sword, mightier than the bolt of Zeus. Between your thighs lies my salvation, and I won’t spare the Gods that come between us. Come Abishag, resurrect my desires!

Order of the lord I cannot contravene, but the fires of consummation are the fires of hell, they will engulf you, they will cauterize your soul, brand you a sinner, and repent you will alone.

I care not, I wish to live the future that killed the soul of my past. Come to my embrace, these ephemeral pleasures are the reasons of my life, of a game well played, of an end that breezes into a new start… Alas! The sting was too harsh, the heat of lust a heat too hot. I’m not immortal, but the seeds of life I have cast.

Oh my king, lured and lost, fated to the same end, chasing a foolish cause. But the seeds will live, and the throne will be mine, my son a weapon of vengeance, a slave forever, performing a pantomime. Just like his father.

An exercise in poetry

Breathless: the search left him. He refused to believe that his inquisition was he. He ran, shuffling between copies, looking each image in the eye, trying to find out where he lay. Each image, in its turn, looked him in the eye, trying to pierce his heart, stabbing his character, only to see if it was real or not. Or was it or was it not. Mirrors create more mirrors, only to lead us astray. Us? Oh no, don’t you dare judge me, you fucking image of mine! I am, and you are not. What is it? Who spoke? Was it an echo? You bloody playing games with me? One of us has a voice, now that it has come to it, and that one is the real one. Oh no, tell me I’m insane, tell me it’s the voices in my head, tell me it’s not you speaking, tell me that I am the one who is real. Not you, not you, not anyone of you.
Look up! haha, there we are, the real one owns. Or does he? I see a mirror above me! I see fingers being pointed at me from above. Are only the mirrors real? What is real? Are we just living vicariously in a hyperreality? Fuck. It can be true!
What is true?