Buck pointed that cracked mirror of his at me today. Says he stole it from the cleaning crew his Aunt hired. Made me look. I took a look but it took more from me. Made me see myself as others see me. Is that something crawling on my head? Nobody saw that, right? I feel a bit like Dorian Gray revealing that mirror of his soul to Basil. Wilde was right about that one. God isn’t the only one who can look at my soul, I can too and there are too many of me. We. So many possibilities buzzing past, and I can watch them go in the mirror and join the multitudes. The twenty-first century dislike of web fiction is the rage of Calibans seeing multiplicities of his own face in the screen. Get used to it. Or maybe just help me up from this hall of mirrors. I would ask for an infinite rock so I could do some smashing but cracks turn one mirror into several and I cannot bear more multiplication. Enough. Stop it. Don’t look at me. You look at yourself.
___123___Sly Uses | Having my way with Ulysses___123___