An Absence of Choice.

He awakens in a sweat and looks in the mirror. He is looking more and more like the man who is doing it in Mulholland Drive. It's because of that poor thought in his mind that keeps coming back. Like a lazy susan in a diner stooped upon a dead highway; those sickeningly sweet desserts revolving, coming back again and again. Here is the idea: there is a woman out there with no face. There is a woman out there with two scalps and no face. There is a woman out there without eyes to look into, without tongue to form syllables, without cheeks upon which tears spill over; with none of these but a personality like a whip still. This plagues his evermore tormented soul and he awakens over and over thinking of what this could mean. What would become of him if should she walk in the door with hairstyles done up well. If she should storm in full of spite and begin her diatribe on his worthlessness; all these words pouring from a hole, an absence. All these arguments irrefutable due to the untraceable nature of it all. How can he defend himself if there is no source? If there is a black hole where there should be a target? No, he won't do it, he'll just sweep the iridescent blue box into the soiled paper bag and he'll keep her in that fantasy where she is falling in love and where the suicide and murder has yet to occur. He will be the torment, he will be the ghost in the hallway. That difference between loss and gain is blurred when there is a choice. She'll stay back with her visage like mist and he'll continue pacing in the alleyway wondering when the wall will crumble to reveal his plan.