I wonder if this is part of your adaptation philosophy to reality. What else can it be in this struggle of the modernity era, where a Paul Bremmer have nothing to do but smile to his death, a freaking Raskolnikov cannot get past the smell of his own fart, and the insane philosopher has killed the only rope-illusion with which at some point we had the comfortable pleasure of hanging ourselves out of the misery of being not vague.
And there, looking into my eyes and realizing my wish to penetrate you other than with my dick, you look for a way out. The giant mirror is already shattered in endless pieces of vague reflection of what it ought to be at their best, and what it really is at their worst. You do forget, you hug the first mirror in your way, assuming the reflection in it would give you a door among the walls of this infinite nothingness. You take away my only chance of touching you and make it real, thus avoiding any abstractions. You pretend to be vague, the smoke of a marijuana joint, inside of which I am supposed to celebrate my existence. Have u ever thought oh actually being born vague rather than becomming such!?
hehehe, I won't allowe you the pleasure of such conformity, even If I have to become the the coffin in which you would fall with a loud bump, screaming to death in full aknowledgment of your ultimate climax. In every one of my thrusts you will either live or die, but you will look forward to any one of them. And every single moan of yours, will be a "thank you" for the crime I am commiting. No more mirrors to escape, no more smoke to forget, no more wishfull thinking in this Rat's land. F....k off, my dearest