The water did not sound like droplets hitting tiles and skin: it sounded like the hammering of fingers on keyboards and the cry of revelation.
It did not feel like water on my skin: it felt like hands groping at my wrists but failing to clasp.
I would not let myself be clasped.
Rather than clean, the water added layers of filth. It turned the skin translucent and revealed the grime within.
I was fat. Grotesque. Filthy. Young. Exhausted. Battered by illness and obstacle. I felt smaller than I had; I felt my own size. I felt eternal. I could not fight the endless chatter in my head. Chit-chat. Chit-chat! Singing back, mimicry, the sincerest form of flattery is imitation. Endless to and fro. All culture and art built upon it. Merely something to talk about.
Then what point the art? What point the artist?
I had been shocked to think there might be none. No point. Just as nothing else was with meaning. Now art was without meaning. Meaning itself was devoid of anything more substantial than a conversation point.
Mimicry – hello! Hello!
I felt young like I never had. I had never realised before how young I was.
That with the folly of youth I might venture something learnt in that strange shower.
What point the art? What point the artist?
For you it is to talk about.
For me it is to talk.
We’re back, baby.
I wish there was a gif of this (there probably is.) A scene occurring late in Bioshock Infinite, we approach looking at the back side of the canvas, where we can see Robert (the painter) looking at what we take to be his subject. This is his twin sister Rosalind on the left there. However, as we pan behind Robert, we see he isn’t painting his twin at all, but rather making a self-portrait.