jamais vu

some days she calls out to me- "at least I think." (she does). soundly, the subtle shape interrupts my sleep, silently slipping beneath all my disbelief, no longer bequeathed to the misery of uncertainty- her efforts (every, all, each) now revealing less of... an end? no, more like an endless moor where we maraude, moreover mulling evermore, adducing until removed and reduced, simmered and stewed: sensation flowing forth as déjà vu is induced, through a deceptively simple question: "but really, who are you?" impossibly, I envision a room somewhere amongst sprawling hallways, an Escherian dreamscape folding my brain tirelessly into Origami figurines, pressure upon paper leaves falling pages layered, dimensionless geometric tessellations redefining with each and every crease: first a Möbius strip, then a Klein bottle, until I conclude it's utterly impossible- every -feat succumbs to a certain suffix (de-), yet I tread so carefully! along the corridors a door is ajar, peering in it- a mirror? maybe a projection? hoping to ascertain knowledge of our world through a simple fact— that I am human, all too human, rationalizing so much suffering as if I myself were the angel of history.