It passed my mind, the thought of doing that, committing the unspeakable and wrenching the mirror away. Because you don't see, even though you think you do or suspect you do - no one sees it. Or rather, everyone sees it, taking in the reflection for all it's worth and knowing nothing beyond or behind. But before I can ink it down my hand starts - barely - to shake for no reason at all; so I don't.
I was so excited; now I want to fling the lot into the bin, tell me what is or is not going to constitute what's so forbidden in your mind?
Shattered glass all over the floor, the blood's not all yours and not all mine. I hate it, that as if it's not enough, we still have to pick up the pieces. And I hate that they keep splintering back. I'm sorry, but I treasure this. And no matter what, that remains unchanged. Maybe I'm just being conceited.
It's unreasonable. Two kinds of opposing expectations, I mean, what?
I'm fine, really, this whole thing is fine, really and what's to be worried about? Nothing. Nothing at all.