Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash
Sorry, you can’t hang your hat here.
So please, hold on to your headwear.
Please come into my parlor and make yourself comfortable.
Sit on no particular sofa.
Don’t observe the furniture.
Let’s talk about ideas.
But not the kind that you and I know.
But other shapeless or shapely ideas we have never encountered.
Tell me. What did you think tomorrow?
That yesterday would surely be a strange day?
Is this all you expected?
Did you mind that you were the fruit of an almond tree?
Simply a figment of its dreamy slumber?
I often thought I lived mostly in the minds of others.
Oh, please don’t crumple your hat.
Am I frustrating you?
I think it looks quite nice with your pregnant eyes.
Are you upset with me?
Tell me how you’re feeling.
That’s a feminine question.
Look in the mirror.
Do you see me? Or you?
It’s all the same, isn’t it?
We can see our own eyes, but not when we’re blinking.
I look different when I don’t see myself.
But I don’t know like what… this used to haunt me.
But it’s alright.
No one else seemed scared when they saw me.
I like your hair.
It reminds me of an orchestra. So many strings coming together beautifully.
I guess you are an instrument in a way.
An instrument of thought, discovery, reflection.
Who plays you?
I once went to a concert of a dead pianist.
His invisible fingers struck the keys of the player piano, and the conductor led a live symphony.
Can an instrument play itself?
Remind me, what did you come here for?
