apostrophenow

Neither a tooter of blow nor feng shui devotee, neither a Jimi fanatic nor prisoner of vanity; I see a woman who lives in a house full of mirrors. She's little more than a mystery. That I feel no connection to my reflection is strange enough, but looking at myself look at myself unto infinity is really a bit much. Strangest of all, you could sit anywhere and see everything and she could still disappear. This disturbs me.

I don't lie to her because she doesn't lie to me, and I won't lie to you although it would be easy. This arrangement is loveless, it can't go anywhere. We speak because we're desperate to hear the sound and we sleep together solely for the warmth. And when the lights go down at the end of the night her home becomes the house full of empty frames. It's just like me to get lost in here, but when it's dark I lose myself.

Breakfast, the silence is deafening sometimes. The occasional clatter of china causes my eardrums to pop, as if I were violently ascending into the sky. A gray slab of light catches blunt smoke. I catch myself smiling lazily, carelessly, but I check it. I turn to face myself in a mirror and she's standing behind me. Like she's been watching me all my life.

She asks me a question. And it might as well be The question : Which is not "Why are we so lonely?" but "What is love?".