There is an invisible glass
window in front of me,
in front of you?
I see you and you are looking at me,
perhaps my reflection.
But can you hear me,
can you feel me?
Can you see what I (would) see?
I touch your hand,
your fingertip touching
what seems to be reality.
My? No, perhaps your own,
but what is real when
what I know is not that
which you know.
What I feel is not
what you can feel.
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