Monday, November 8, 2004


He's leaving his silhouette behind - from this point forward it is all you will have to know. He's retreating deeper into that echoing cavern - his intellect, his self - and he's shrinking back from the infected touch of his fellow man.

The subway is death.
Too many people-
Advertising overdose.

Something in him, however, prevents him from disappearing completely - he chooses to leave a window open. The window is open so that you may look in, but you are only to see what he chooses. He busies himself with erecting elaborate sets, staging plays, getting the lighting just right. You're seeing a fiction of sorts. A show. And you are the audience.

How much do you know?
He hides best when in full view,
Wearing someone else.

Does it matter if you never know what is real? Who he really is? Some words come to mind: impostor, deceiver, liar, cheat. Actor. What if he no longer knows? What if something, someone, is so carefully counterfeited, forged - no, simulated - that it, he, is indistinguishable from the original? The integrity of the archetype is totally undermined. He's fooled himself. What, then?

He's slipping away
To the other side of here,
Never to be found.

Climb through that window. Slap him around a bit. Tell him that he's full of shit, that he's not fooling anybody but himself. Knock down the set, rip up the stage, and smash out those lights. In the darkness all is revealed.

No silhouette.

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