A strange head lies around there. Different from the photos. She is lying in bed. I am this head. I am this strange, different looking head. I am this head that has not yet entered the picture in this way. Thrown by time, into time; unempowered, just there.

Her body is like a jumping jack. Her limbs are tied with threads to the torso of her thoughts. To stand up, she pulls a cord, takes a step, collapses, and pulls the cord again.

I am that. I am her. I am this person.

Her head (my head) is also different because she never sees it from this angle. I look at her askew, inaskew. From an angle that the mirror image never catches, does not occur in, cannot be tamed or controlled.

What am I talking about? About being subjected in the looks of others, about one’s own impotency. And this is not brought onto us by others, by me or them. It appears to us as an non-angle of the multiplexity of our reality. As a non-controllable area.