Mise-en-Abyme.

Keep in mind, this man is bleeding.  

What appeared at first to be some kind of performance, mutated into a very private act. A glass smashed in the kitchen, theatrics of course. But then, panic. Hand-washing. Towel-drying. Too much. 

Then, a box with broken objects, not the same glass. 

A low table polished to within an inch of it’s miserable life. 

Watch reflected in the glare of a television. 

This continued for some time. 

Writing on the wall. 

Note the time difference.

A snapchat name, of course. What else.

This was the worst.

He believed each magazine had different germs. He was speaking warnings in three languages about the types of germs encroaching on his house. 

Four hours, monitored by the masses. He demanded people watch over him. 

I was the last one to leave. 

He did not return.

He played songs nobody requests. He was taunting the shadows. 

The race war’s new phase, sung to the tune of cartoon music.