As you pluck your eyebrows looking into a mirror smeared with fingerprints, I’m drifting about on the verge of some existential crisis. It’s the fourth time this week. Glancing at me as I stand in the corner of the room sniffing my fingers, you frown at my erratic behaviour while pulling out a stubborn hair leaving you with tears in your eyes. These days wear me down. They leave me unable to tether myself to anything of meaning, and coupled with my pre-existing disillusion concerning the humdrum nature of life, I find myself not being able to do anything but wish for the end. You tell me to settle, but your words don’t reach me. Well, they do, but they’re not good enough. The only thing that will help is if you let me see you touch yourself by the light of a candle with the curtains drawn. If you were to take me to another place by the magic conjured at your fingertips, then my condition would surely improve, and yet you refuse. It’s because you hate me. You must do. There’s no other reason. Falling into the chair by the window, I roll a cigarette even though you remind me of how dirty a habit it is. In retaliation, I decide whether or not to mention the things you like me doing to you when we fuck, and the things you do to me in return. All those bodily fluids. The element of submission. The dirty words you encourage me to whisper in your ear as my fingers wrap around your throat. Looking over from your little mirror, you know what I’m thinking about, and so you don’t push the issue any further. You’re plucking out another stubborn hair, and so you need to concentrate. Watching you as you grimace, I grin at your displeasure while sucking down a lungful of smoke.