inf-site/works/fascicles/011-fytte-the-eleventh/text

"You can't hear the music of the universe like that," she said.

"Like what?" I asked. "I am silent—no headphones, no radio, no nothing—and my mind is clear."

"Exactly," she said. "Your mind is a mirror that is like a pond. And yours is beautiful and still and perfect because it is dead."

"Mirrors are lies," I remember I said.

"Truer than you know," she said.