If I'm the mirror and you're the image
then what's the secret between the
these 'me's and 'you's, how many can there be?
Oh, I don't mind all that around the
as long as you keep it
well away from me.
I've begun to regret that we ever
between the dimensions.
It gets such a strain to pretend that the change
with your infant pique and your angst pretensions
sometimes you act like a
And now I'm standing in the corner,
looking at the room and the
in cheap imitation of alienation and grief.
And now we're going to the
fix ourselves a drink and a cigarette,
getting no closer to being the joker or
Still, I reflect, this nervous wreck
who stands before me can see as
can surely tell that he's not yet free;
he can turn aside, but can no more ignore
than know which one of us is he,
than tell what we are going to be,
than know which
one of is me.
And now we're going to the kitchen,
fix ourselves a drink and a
getting no closer to being the joker or thief.
these mirror images
won't stay, go away, are no help.
In these mirror
images of myself
there are no secrets.