Why don’t I just scream about all the problems I have with the world, as if my own stupid little scrawny, scratchy, and asinine voice would ever make a bit of difference - especially now. 

I am a reflection. The metal in my face grows out of my skin as every passing moment demands more and more, I have no answers, I have no questions, I have nothing except my own damned hands and even they are crumbling now. Keys fly around like toothpicks, picking hunks of half-chewed food out from between the molars of ogres, the kind that really like to by overpriced, smells-like-flowery-asshole cologne. Lots of chest hair and a single webbed toe on both feet - asymmetrical. 

Reflection. Even the blasted sand, polished and polished, will never truly tell you what you want to know. It just lies there - crumbled up, sneaking into everything, attaching itself to your skin, making you look like a giant human-shaped pizza crust. Dig a knife into me and take a bite, press a few random buttons and hope that sound will come out.