There is a time, when you cannot understand your own behaviour anymore.
A feminist man who is not a feminist.
A lady in a wheelchair, walking with ice-cream in her hand every day.
The lips that are not lips.
That moment when you finally want to swallow, or are ready to, and you face the fourth wall.
The teeth grinding, smashing against each other into little strings.
A moment when you realise that this is yet again, another composed folly.