Nothing to see here, any mirror says more.
What is it I long for, far within my unsearchable waters? We who refuse to open our eyes, lest we believe and be saved…. I remember reading about this woman who lived another complete life in her dreams: she had her waking husband and kids, and house and all; and then she had a second family, a second house, to which she’d return when she said goodnight to the first. What did I, myself, lose to the dreaming? Perhaps nothing so well formed, but some kind of blunt, primordial fire that extinguished itself for my fear of it, fear of any kind of passion? And I will never now be comforted, for what I lost was the torch that led me out of the wilderness, and I am lost in the dark wood of myself, unable to care. (Where am I?)