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Then I come to a reflective surface, a piece of glass with a silvery amalgam backing. I know this surface because every time I look at it I see myself reflected back as some kind of shiny ornament.
I see myself as a white silhouette on a white background.
I see myself breathing, I see myself holding my breath.
I see myself as a silent whisperer lodged in between two phonemes, armed with an ice pick and trying to loosen them up, to break them into smaller, more easily digestible bits of meaning.
I want them to be so small that they can slip through the pores of my skin. I want them to have free and easy access to my bloodstream.
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