You make for a hit

As you face the lens
Only enough so that they can see
(That you are looking but not at what
Nor) the pupils of your eyes,
Which are always elsewhere aimed
(at the nothing behind lights)
At the justification
That beyond this paper world
There is no more

Truth (is, that all is unreal):
The doors lead to no adjacent rooms
And the pupils of your eyes
Are really hollow.

So you linger,
Until the credits roll
And they look away.

And you pretend not to feel
The feelings you were pretending
When you feel like pretending
A pretend feeling is real.

There drops
A single tear
Born of your imagining.
You feel it sting
It streaks your cheek
And not unlike God

You created something.

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