“What is your original face?”
Original? Does that mean I have one now?
Perhaps when I mirror gaze.
Otherwise, if I have a face, it resides in the minds of those who look upon it.
He who takes a scaffold built of patches of matter, varying distances from his eye
and reflecting various spectra of light, and fleshes it out in subjectivity owns the face.
That mean thing,
thing of glee,
that by which cantankerousness is displayed
thing of sorrow,
thing of madness,
that ugly-pretty, disheveled topography of flesh
is a faceless face,
or — perhaps — a thoughtless thought.