The End.

People don't seem to notice as I walk. It's just another fish in the sea.

This greasy hair, it calls for my attention as the wind whisks every so often. A nuisance, and yet it should fall naturally back in its place. Around the edges of the lenses are smudged fingerprints, lightly opaque but not enough to be a great annoyance. It's cold, but the cool air dampens my hands, whipping this face of mine. The layered clothing is efficient, and naturally tasteful from an outside perspective. It's heavy, but not restrictive. People around this area, they don't tend to stop for anything. They just mind their business. I should like it...

The key in my pocket should be cold, but considering that it is so close to my person, it just about matches this body temperature. The front desk was empty, vacant, it makes way for less conversation. Luckily...

Being welcomed home to a remotely empty apartment, I stand at the doorway, making sparing steps before pausing, backtracking, kicking off these sandals with a very wooden thud. They should be called getas, they're meant for informal wear, I think. The weather is getting colder, but people don't seem to mind the style. Scanning the room, I assume my space on the seat that was left behind in this apartment. This form leans back, assuming to find its natural resting position, but I can't seem to find it just right. The room should be filled, there should be quilts spilling off a lovingly worn down sofa-- instead of this beaten down one. Looking towards a drab sliding door, it's glass panelling should be covered by dark drapes to keep the light out. It's what I should like. The floor, they should be covered with a carpet instead of it being just wood. Finding spare chip crumbs, and lost bottle caps between the strings. The fridge should be filled with miscellaneous items that don't go together, the room dimmed and lit with strewn lights from the ceilings. It's what shown up in those thoughts, I've seen them, it should be perfected that way. A dying plant in the corner, an ungodly amount of paper piling a desk and spilling off it, a laptop always tucked beneath this arm. With time, these things will come together. To be frightfully inviting.

Nearing the television, this hand traces the side to the chin of it, the dark screen screaming this reflection back at myself before I find the switch. This face has been framed just right, perfectly.

There's no issue once the tv boots on, though I flash through the channels quickly. From gameshow, to advertisement, to whatever and whatnot, I settle on the news and sit on the back of my feet. There's a report of a burning building. It should have burnt down last night. I should know that. It's where I used to live. A anchor woman is outside the premise, speaking to the camera before the view switches closer to the front. Burnt. All gone. 

It makes me wonder why they wanted to stay in there, despite being so resistant. Their life looked awful, disgusting. Wearing this look even feels like it too, like they haven't showered in a week, or would shatter by a single outside interaction. It didn't bother me, but I just wanted so desperately to understand why that nightmare could result in something so... 

I switch the television off, and watch this faux reflection stare back at me. I make a face that I haven't seen them make before, and scoff. It's just an experiment. I need to know, I want to. And if it means building this simulation brick by brick in living, breathing time, I might have to. It's pathetic, I need to find some silver lining to it somehow. I could quit anytime I wanted to. I just need to find how someone could exist like this. Either way, I have as long as I need to work through it considering that nobody is looking. They never were and never will.

Luckily. And yet, it still disgusts me.