You tell me how to look at you. You never see me. You see what I see of myself. Which is nothing but what’s there. Sometimes I fantasize you know my name, my real name. But you know I don’t have one. We talk about the movie, the anime series you watched when you were still a kid, the other one about the prep academy, the fucking on the grave, drainpipes. Lick, sniff, whiff. My eyes are mounds. My cheeks are glass. Sometimes when I wake up to go to work, I remember my job’s inside the mirror. To talk to myself like wooden furniture cast somewhere from the future. I take a bath in my clothes because nakedness hasn’t been invented yet. Grace and joy are mute. Also friends. Do you like my hair? I need a towel. Sex is a kind of oblivion, soft and casual, that I think no one ever sees. I like myself like a loneliness.