What was once an original experience loses its uniqueness with each subsequent take. An obvious analogy is with theater: actors may change, but the script remains the same. Can you tell them apart or just pretend you do? Repeat, repeat, repeat. Sometimes it feels like my whole life is stuck on a loop. The Sun is out and I find myself looking out the window, witnessing the usual scene before it gets interrupted by the sound of boiling water. The twins are walking past the building, sleek hair swirled in identical buns, oversized black coats, blue jeans. Then, a lady with two cats, politely leashed, one in each hand, appears by the playground. While outsides double, insides remain singular.

What was once an original experience loses its uniqueness with each subsequent take. I find great pleasure in disappearing, even greater pleasure in silence. Ideally, becoming so still that automatic lights turn off in my presence. It's Monday, 4:50 PM, and I am sitting on a wooden chair, palms cupped on my lap, eyes closed, passing time by eavesdropping on oranges rolling out of grocery bags, which have been carelessly left on the floor, right behind closed doors. That cough of yours doesn't sound right, you should consider getting it checked. Suddenly a finger trembles, always the same one, though I can never remember which. I should reach out, but knowing my usual ways, I won't.

What was once an original experience loses its uniqueness with each subsequent take. Consider a memory to be geographical, then spread it across the map: Bulwar Czerwieński, Aleja Słowackiego, Korona, Bazylika św. Franciszka z Asyżu, Aleja Waszyngtona. Some things I recall, others I don't. What else is there? I can never tell, as no one ever tells me, and even when they do, it's likely inconclusive. I keep a journal of stories and it's always the same one being told yet again. Soft skin, red light. Eventually, a candle burns to nothing, and I have yet to make a wish. If I were to look at myself through your eyes, who would I see?