A man looks at himself in a mirror and then. Walking down a street at night, wearing a suit and tie. His hands are in his pockets so that he might become more intimate with himself.

Watching him from a bench nearby we can see. The things he mulls over so deliberately. Do men who see themselves see themselves truly? Hair blowing in the wind of a paved street.

Dark night in the mind of man is also reality. Street lights provide visibility. But where is he going? Been around about three times already. The man walks with himself and wonders why he wanders. Meets himself at the halfway point and shakes his own hand, only to strongarm himself into submission “come with me!” But how come? He won’t listen to himself. He knows this, that’s why he’s walking.

I think I’ve figured him out you see. Strange st. Petersbergers like this, always walk the canals filled with concrete. Waiting for a woman like me… to bring them home from the winter of their delusions. But this is a phantom itself, a mirror.

Does looking into a mirror and then really help? Owning the mirror and knowing the subject and the object which are one in the mirror. And then? Does he wear a suit and tie or does he look at himself that way, the pavement is recurring for some kind of iterating long period of time. Does he enjoy this? That’s probably the wrong question from my point of view.

Its confusing but its also somewhat upsetting, each mirror replicates the previous one, he’s standing in a streetlight lit room with a mirror at his front and at his back and then. Does the temporal dimension help this, the walking.

Walking let’s you take in more data so you can think about a wider range of topics, the static mind is less fruitful than the moving. But in this way also more torturous. He walks on mirrors you see, and each step he gains one mirror more.

It’s fall and so the leaves must fall, just so death might be wrapped in a white blanket. The man walks with the seasons, around and around. But I am the sun… why can’t he find me.

He argues with himself: “Why can’t I perform what I command myself to do. What part of me rebels? How can such a thing occur to a whole man. A man like me, always thinking… full of ideas, but what’s the point if they refuse to be made into matter through the motion of the vessel *my vessel. I must be at war with myself. This must be some kind of soliloquy, one that includes a chorus. This steps are forcing me to confront myself but all I can do is imagine myself looking at myself confronting myself. How can this be solved anyways, I have to make war on myself, but how does one do such a thing. This recursive mind of mine, perhaps should take a short respite. Gather its thoughts and devise a clear solution. The thought of the accomplishment seeming instant, the steps along the way ever painful and abstract. As I walk down to the water my thoughts pulse as the waves, forming… dissipating and then. Forming again. I have to find some place to stop, some clear image to rest upon, some mirror of sorts that I might have a clear examination and determine exactly what to do.”

He’s still walking late at night you see, a strange but beautiful creature, how I wish he would love me and not only love himself. For I am fair and good for him, I would be I swear. I have no flow, no coming and going, I am stable and therefore I might become a mirror. He walks by a seventh time? Could this be the end. Surely not for we are ever so vigilant during these early hours of the new day.

But then ruffling his feathers he takes his nose out of his chest and looks at me. He must have figured this to be a place to rest. Please oh please come to me for I have been awaiting you. I look at him with tender eyes and try to summon him. He looks in my direction but hardly notices me, probably interested in the bench. Looking for a place to rest, but resting the feet will only anger the mind, one must keep moving in general so that thought becomes more clear. Or rest in me indeed and take a good look to solve your problem. Come here and sit next to me now I’ve been waiting for you.

So he sits idly and disregards my presence, how dare one dress like a gentleman without acting as one! Absurd. But then suddenly he comes to me and looks me dead in the eye. Grabbing my thigh he examines himself, am I. The final mirror, if such a thing was to exist. Looking at my waiting blankness he collects himself and gazes longingly into to me and then.

He begins to write.