Do you ever get the feeling that you’re a table pretending to be a fork? And not even particularly well; you can convince most other people because nobody really looks that close, and they’re content to take your word for it, but occasionally, late at night when you’ve finished brushing your teeth and have flipped off the light in the bathroom and are about to go to bed, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, your profile lit up by the orange streetlamp light coming in through the small frosted window over the loo, and you see that you’re not really a table at all, not quite; something else is glimmering in the darkness back at you, and you get a sense of… not dislocation, but a dislocation of the self. Disembodiment? Disensoulment?
Yeah. My advice is to run as soon as you kill the lights. Don’t linger in the bathroom.