I Dread The Day I Turn Out To Be Real

Surrounded by mirrors, it's all just phantasmagoria, whimsy guesswork of a boy. I feel like a chance encounter, surrounded by clocks whose hands seem not to move in the slightest, clocks that forget how to make a sound.

In the mirror, there's one big question mark: a riddle which was solved, and then turned out not to be solved at all. Existence is so fickle, such chance, changing before your very eyes, before you've had a chance to acclimatize.

Surrounded by mirrors, it's all just illusions and lights, a magic-lantern show whose flames ebb and flow until they disappear completely. A candle wick, a matchbox, a girl pieced together at random by wandering eyes. A cloud, which opens up wide and tickles the sky.

Under the mirrors, it's all just capricious brain-thoughts I dream on a whim. The hands of a puppet-master, a sickened twist of fate within a Game. A pawn, fragmented by disguise, a most peculiar guise, and neon lights:

I feel like a cloud of dust, whisked away by a gust of wind or an elevated voice. Under the neon lights, there's only clouds made up of Me, and nothing more.