The things another can see, I wonder now and again. The blind knowledge set before me. I'll ask myself time and time again. What do they see when they see me? Just a thing, another human, a dinner plate? I do not always think the world or myself in it so clearly. At those times, I can do little but distance or grow deeply frustrated by mystifying imagination. They can't see what I see. I can't see what they see. Am I troubled, or am I troubled by naught?

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