the only way you'll ever learn a thing is to admit that you know absolutely nothing

I have had this feeling that men can see right through me. It hasn't really happened with a woman yet. But the older the men, the clearer their view. I am a piece of plate glass. My thoughts are dime-sized mirrors. My eyes are made of magnifying glass. My heart is a diamond.  I dream of puppies. You inebriate me, somehow. I dream of you letting me into your house and offering me a place to sleep in your spare bedroom. I feel like you know this with your smile. You seem kind, though your hospitality wasn't real. Was it? Somewhere that really happened, but not to this me. I have thought about this paradox of truth.  Time is an illusion.  Nothing is real.  Bleeding is an intimate activity when your inner world has intercourse with the outside world.  Can anyone hear me?  Will anyone understand this?  Do I understand this?  I send my thoughts out and they die.  They lie heavy in the earth, but they don't get covered up by dirt.  They get covered by other dead thoughts.  Fungi, insects, and bacteria eat them.  The ideas are graciously recycled.  My image is reflected back at me from a mirror in back of me to another side of the mirror in front of me and the images, one inside the other, trail off into infinity.  Am I that many people or is that an illusion?  My head is a museum filled with an ever changing exhibit of useless memories.  You have the key to a door I need to open.  On the other side is my understanding.  You fell through my pupils into my love and were swimming there in a pool of water-colored comprehension.  The tangle of your hair confines my breath, but you breath for me when you speak.  I am silent.  Glass can't talk. Why should I?