Thirdly, the image that I see behind my mask is the image you see behind your mask. You may ask-
1. "how can this be, for my mask is not your mask and visa-versa?"
2. "Am I really to believe that the thoughts seen from behind my mask are seen through my mask another asks?"
3. "My mask can't be your mask. Because without ever sharing a mask my knowledge of my mask will never be coherent with your mask. Does this make sense mask?
I would like to now point out that I can see what you're doing behind your mask--right mask?
Are you a masochist?
Are you an Anitchrist?
I don't want to live in a city downtown. Nope. Never. Mask.
PT 1 of LETTER:
To the Man Behind the Mask-
I do apologize for my absence. It's not like me to interrupt a daily schedule (especially that of another) with my own games, but I simply cannot resist. I propose two things:
1. Being the man inside the box.
2. Not Being the man inside the box.
To propose a third op[tion], for one must not marry the words in his head, but rather the words expelled from ones mouth--as a King was permitted to crown his Jester the throne, but not his child, I too, believe you cannot distinguish the op[ortunity] to RE-LIVE.
I think that I'm a super-being. Do you think this is natural? "Its only natural" as its kosher God would say, right before disappearing into Hell.
My dad told me this right before he cut out my eyes. I was ten, but it still hurt like all hell.
When I'm older (I would say) when younger, that this life wasn't made for walkers (I would say) not for talkers either, no, just for me and you, and what I'm going to do to you.
I think that I'm going to 'glow'. Not to illuminate what's important, just to guide the way for a ships ever impending sinking.
When I was fishing in Alaska, I met a man. He said. Lets stop this nonsense and go to the park instead--that's where heaven is. He told me that he's been on this ship for 90 years. As he unloaded his final barrel of trash into the waves, he disappeared.
Not ever will the man behind the mask be the mask behind the man: this is simply impossible, cause making sense of it would only lead to: options.
Let me tell you a story about a tomcat I once knew. She was Hot. I want her today, more than ever. But let me tell you that I'm no rememberer of the past, nor do I strive to remember whats already being forgotten, but she (my tomcat) never changes. I tell her to leave and she stays. Lodged in my clitoris (right in-between the two sides of my brain).
Could you tell me whey? Cause. Simply:
PT. 2 of LETTER (excluding analysis)
In return to my last response I leave the board open to Re-Birth. If I had a camera I would peer into the woman's womb with that technology and figure it to be too gruesome, resembling all hell--but in reality, find it quite beautiful in person. I love my mask. Wear it she said as I dislodged the boy from his umbilical cord, cutting it, slicing it off, letting it wither ever so slowly, down to the bottom of his stomach. She says its beautiful, I disagree and we never see each other again.
PT. 3 of LETTER (excluding analysis)
Thank you. Mask. For being the one of many. You should revisit me more often. Right? Well thats hard to say, so let me mouth it to you the way, it you were to fall down upon the floor I would to re-birth you via CPR. A bully would be happy to hear hearts beat again.
Love, your friend,
Dennis.
RESPONSE TO MY LETTER (received yesterday):
Dennis.
I do not play the violin. Nor do I play the flute. Not even the oboe, but if you would so kindly remind me, that your mask plays all three, even four maybe, with others 5, that in doing so, creates an scaled snake, interweaving the thoughts from my chest into a salute, swelling of hiss--directed at those taken impart, by all directions of faith, not tying together, not ever. I do not play these instruments you describe above. I'm sorry for this response.
-The man behind the mask.
