I look my reflection in it's glass eyes. A mirage of heterochromia sleeps behind every filmy blink.
My doppelgangers' shrewd analysis traces my subvocalization. What would you say to me if you spit words strong enough to split this glass, young man?
We're nearly halfway done, you know.
I shake my head at myself, biting back a clump of frustration. Too much squandering. Indulging reverence of obsolescence.
You could call it Tao. Or whimsy. Or the nature of the Scorpion.
It tastes like colorless dissonance. And I cannot hide my faltering, flawed justifications. The neutral and analytical stone-gaze of my splinter twin knows precisely the same as me. Only unencumbered.
12:40 a.m. - 2014-08-28
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