What you do defines what you are. Can you tell me what I am Mr. Mirror? Can you look me in the eye and tell me what I need to feel? Society suffers for its emotions. Humanity suffers for its mistakes. I do not suffer. But you, Mr. Mirror, you define humanity, yes. You are a hero, an idol. You define epitome, Mr. Mirror, you make human nature seem rational, to an extent, where even I can sigh and say with certainty that I am not the worst amongst us. We search for reason, I'm sure you've noticed, and joke about purpose and chance and fate and other things related to heartly matters like solitude and irrevocable trust. Yes, trust is what guides us down dark paths of desperate dreams, dark dreams to which you cling and cry out and lash against the subconscious realities that you know so well. I do not dream, Mr. Mirror. I have no need for dreams. Dreams are for those with weakened constitutions. Dreams soften you. They paralyze your instinct, your almost forgotten animalistic desires. Do you know how I got these scars, Mr. Mirror? Have I ever told you my story? It happened in a dream is all I will say. Yes, humanity idolizes dreams, it hunts for dreams, kills for dreams, dreams that heal and dreams that haunt. It searches for dreams that will cut you up and leave you rotting away to die and screaming, begging for more. Do you have dreams, Mr. Mirror? I would dream for the night to always be dark, for reality to creep in to the rooms of silently sleeping children, yielding a rusted scythe. Behold my sacrament of blood, it shall scream, I am your master, to obey me you must die, and to die you shall first be introduced to yourselves. But I do not have dreams, Mr. Mirror. The night loses its luster as dawn comes and the dark drowns without any remaining dignity, retreating like a dog, like a parasite, like a businessman. Yes, the night drops its scythe and runs, runs until it can pretend to have never seen the spilt blood. Have you ever wondered what it would mean to have a heart, Mr. Mirror? I can't say I ever have. But when I look at you and see your scars, oh how I flutter within. And that beautiful gun, how I would love to ram it down your throat and hear you squeal and beg for more, because I know that you will beg for more. And I see your finger on that brilliant trigger. What? You dare hesitate? Come on, come on, come on, let's play again, come on, come on. The game never seems to end. No matter how many times you seem to shatter. The game defines us all. Isn't that right, Mr. Mirror?
