Why am I confronted with infinity?
Am I supposed to make sense of it?
Or just let it rattle around in my mind?
Could it be I no longer function rationally?
That the world I view is seen through prismatic eyers?
Disorientation confronts me, stifles me.
There is no reflected image in the mirror.
Will someone ever stand beside me?
from Confusion: a finer distinction
by Michael R. Martin c.1978