One night in a pretend paris.

There are too many mirrors in this room, they discomfort me. I have begun to cover them with pieces of paper. They are my notes on you and they are bewildering observations that obscure my face from my self, but not from my id, that, I cannot escape. I cannot describe myself to you because I do not want to look into myself long enough for you to get a small picture of the I that I avoid. I am sure you can imagine! put any face you like upon mine I do not mind.

   When it summer thunders, this room seems to almost scorn me with thunderous applause and inside I bow in pleasure at my accomplishments which for you are invisible and inimical  and though all that I was has passed, I still favour it with all the warmth of memory that I can muster.

  There are too many mirrors in this room.

My other habit aside from watching is sleeping. It is a drug to me.

  When the mind smoothes out and becomes aware that it is free from thinking, the body is then able to slip into sleep like a hot dropped stone. I love that feeling.

 I seem to think most profoundly when I am in this state of consciousness and although I am unable to record these free thinking thoughts because sleep is entrapping me and I mourn the loss of these insights, I know that they are they there within me and I take comfort from that. In my dreams I can travel to places I have never actually been and the air is always sweet and the views unobstructed. That is where I want to be now and so I slide into my fresh bed without any qualms and I forget about you for now and I become still and softened and calm. I sleep and I dream.

The End

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