I stepped into his world uninvited, and immediately lost my face.
He gave me a bowler hat, an apple that never rotted, and a mirror that refused to reflect me.
We stood there, painter and imposter, each trying to out-surreal the other.
“Ceci n’est pas toi,” he said with a smirk.
He was right.
I wasn’t myself. I was everyone who ever tried to be seen in a world that prefers symbols.