There is a desert in my mind. Thoughts of sand, white as bone.
Dry, disintegrating thoughts. Baked and crumbled in the sun; blown to the four quarters by hot winds.
A memory: intangible, sliding across the surface of my mind; as smooth as glass, it holds nothing. Betrays nothing.
I do not exist in this mind. I have been stripped of this place, like the skin of a freshly killed deer. Carved away and discarded.
This mind only knows you.
It only shows you... you.
You, reflected back at you.
You, and you again.
Your mind.Your thoughts and wants and desires...
Reflected over and over again.
Was that what you want?
Was that your desire?
If you could have chosen the thing you would leave me with, would it really have been you?
Should it, really, have been you?