We share a minor chancelessness. Who do you think you are?, I ask the mirror (really, not me – the mirror). And I scatter tobacco (not on purpose. I know him: Mr. Purpose is a neurotic. I do not like him particularly. Only his edges. They seem trustworthy, though.) The mirror starts to sing a song within its own (seemingly wrong) grammar. I listen carefully, and jump with my head in its face: INTO THE IT-FACE. This was brave, I tell my blood. And I continue: you were a tad old, weren’t you. Which is what I ask the mirror, or rather its shards: seriously waiting for two answers – for a monogamist solution. (I think I laugh, additionally.) Well, you got it: usually I do not expect even one. (In other words, as if there was at least one fitting already: how I treat the debris is a sign of disrespectfulness. I’m too broken not to feel close. This is why I deny responsibility.) Neither does the shattered care what I want it to be. It is indifferent. And still, it remains to be its IT. So, we are colleagues, if you want. Yes, if you claim it to be necessary: let’s say, we are sailors without sails (but only then). There is rain on the fog on what is left of the mirror. Its sound hurts. Perhaps it’s my saliva, but I do not believe I’m still capable of leaving a mark. (Only, of course, in the notebooks of the ever-pleonastic fascist Platonic regime I’m forced to die in one day or the other arbitrariness.) I rub my face in the mirror’s cenotaph, and say no goodbye no longer – but only since there is my answer: why should I?