whatever you read
you read yourself
then you begin to wonder
about your own self
whatever you see
you see yourself
then you make big eyes
at your own self
whatever you hear
you hear yourself
then your feelings rise
all within your own self
wherever you go
whatever you think
you are a prisoner
in a solitary echo chamber
in a maze of magic mirrors
in a library of babel
⁝
Tonó: You are what you eat.
Macrocosmic: This world is our mirror.
The Gnostic Wanderer: You can only see what you are.
Master Thaur: One glimpse is enough to recognise a pitiful almost-existence.
Uncle Adelbart: Those denying, degrading, rotting away, are intent on dragging all down with them. All the forces are out in never before seen strength and abundance. It’s unsurmountable, their assault, there’s no point in resisting. If I can’t change my terrible destiny, at least I’ll face the truth.
Master Thaur: It’s why I can’t stand girls with tattoos. Especially those with bambi eyes. Or with green hair. But then girls’ appearance can’t be trusted, this is rule number one.
Little Goddess: And they’re hysterical too. And cunning. At least you see on men if they’re trash.
Tonó: As The Cure said: disintegration.
The Gnostic Wanderer: It’s not really a prison though. More like a carnival of karma. We can recognise ourselves in reflections and change course and grow. But we tend not to. Somewhat understandably, as it’s hard. So it goes on.
Señor Palermo: As Macrocosmic said: echoes are us.