Win-Lose-Draw

. . . . . . . . . to populate this nothingness, a blank white sheet, with ink. And I have to strangely admit this feeling of being watched through a one-way mirror. The face on the other side is a diversion. I am a puppet. The face on this side smiles, as though being entertained.

It is a dueling stalemate that checkmates itself because there is a mirror on the wall, setting up a dilemma of infinite regress. I am a one-man sideshow.

Hiding behind the sheet, a few molecules away, is the answer to everything. Why milk no longer comes in glass bottles. The distance from the Post Office to the last delivery. How when I trip over my own feet there is a logical reason to blame you. The magic looking glass.

I am struck with the absurdity of absurdity. There are no excuses. Existentialism is dead. It's mind blowing and needs a paper weight. There are people reading the New York Times, the Guardian, the Wall Street Journal who would like to know what's on the other side.

Sounds like a plan. Subscriptions will not be overly expensive. Everyone will get rich off each other in a sort of autobiographical Ponzi scheme. It will of course be encrypted. The articles will be completely baffling, becoming famous for inscrutable wisdom, insider knowledge that readers claim to have.

The Author on the backside deserves credit for an obscene pen. There is not even a fly speck on the magic mirror, yet laughter is getting through. Being utterly clear, unmoved, or transparent by degrees, it should reflect my Self. According to reports. But the laughter is infectious and . . .

I can match that – the pen that does truth, ignoring quibbles, rules and . . . . . .

Read on . . . . . .