There was a strange period of my life, some years ago, in which I found myself haunted by vanity, and trapped in it. For months prior, I had been starved of all pleasure and comfort, and eventually I came across an oasis. I drank there until the color returned to my cheeks, and I gave a toast alone. Starved as I had been, I kept on drinking; even when I was full, I drank more in celebration. Time slid past, like the water through my throat, and my smile grew confused by degrees. I realized my drinking had slowly become inverted, as though I had crossed a threshold beyond which the more water I drank, the less was in my body. So I stopped and sat there unmoving, apart from things. Still beyond the threshold, my refusal to drink caused happiness to return, and this time it was a calm happiness. The calm piled up in the back of my head, and I awaited the equilibrium through which sitting would cease to be a kind of action. But the calm kept piling up, and eventually became so excessive that large portions began rolling off and creating a new reserve. This new reserve took the form of a head; I could not tell if it was inside of mine or grew next to it or behind it. Detached from its origin, the secondary calm took on new airs, and I could tell that if I were to drink water again, it would take the water for itself. So I left my oasis, already having overstayed my welcome, and returned to my home. Between its bored and kindly walls I spent some time mourning. Eventually I got to talking with this new head of mine, partly because it was the only remaining trace of the lost days on the oasis. We spoke about loneliness, the pleasures of creation, and memory. We agreed on quite a lot, but on memory our opinions diverged. I said that people only feel like they are separate from one another because they hoard their memories, and, worse, build statues out of them in the belief that these statues can be seen by anybody at all. My words, however, were like balloons, empty and gone away as soon as they left my mouth. I'm not sure what he said; as our conversation went on it became very difficult for me to discern who was speaking, and who believed what. I have lived this way since, unable to speak honestly or enjoy the arts of living without also intoxicating my heart. Many years later, free of vanity, I imagine I will be able to write a nice little story like this one, and clear things up once and for all. If someone else writes it first, all the better.