But you're an octopus in a tank, a tank of water pumped through the veins, testicles, lungs, of this one known artifice: what are you writing there? That you? That's you, your reflection on the glass morphing in the ink, you in simulation. Reflect? Yes you think; you think and think you are, you see it, you, even as your reflection absolves you from your thinking, becomes another thing, a thing passing, past: what the dark glass lets go, lets loose, a reflection. Nothing more.
Something: I might be paranoid.
