I promised myself I wouldn't do this any more...

All right, seeing as he has lost all sense of shame, here, for one, last appearance, I give you...

Upon perusal...

So there it is then. This thing they call a mirror. Audacious, yes, and thoroughly that at that. It knows no fear. Shame is, to it, just a word that rhymes with 'game' in the intricate poetry of its heart. It stares blankly at me, and for a moment, for ever just such a momomenticle, I hate it.

"I don't have to put up with this, you know!" I say loudly and without stammers. It flinches. Or does it? It does.

Or. Does. It?

This thing, this reflective and refractive sheet of hell does not judge. It just stares dumbly like a mong in a washing machine. All of its faults are mine. And this is tragedy, This, my friends, is where it all starts to fall oh-so-ever apart.

I could pick the spot. The spot it is showing me. I could do that, but that's just another coda in this dance we know so well, but out of which neither of us can us out break. This is a time for new definitions, for the rewriting of contracts. This is a time for men with biros to scribble out history's polite standards, and draw knobs in the margin. I am man. I am mint-fresh. I am covered in thought-boils, each bursting into a clerihew.

Who, then, will emerge victorious from this, the age-old battle? I pull my knob out for shock value. The mirror doesn't seem surprised. Something, deep inside yet only just out of reach; my bongo-playing, palm-fronded, musk-buttocked self, frolicking in the sands of prehistory is wanking in my soul.

He wanks for everything we have lost.

I wank, too...