I retreat to my room. There is a man there, standing with himself in the same way he always does, with his arms tied around his ankles, wrapped around his legs, incestuous vines of self protection.

The mirror is on the closet door, and I open it then to clear away the image, grab what I need, shut it and move quickly away. There a mess of objects on the floor, each of them mine in some way, and also not at all, like they’ve temporarily fallen into my possession, rented from a library or borrowed from a friend.

I like to think of myself as tidy, but I leave them there in a mess much of the time now.

A slice of a future story, written at Cosmo Vibrators in Bangkok.