You're staring at me," Simon said. "Why are you staring at me? Have I got something on my face?
As we walked into the room
There were faces staring, glaring, tearing through me,
Someone said, 'Welcome to your doom,'
Then they smiled with eyes that looked as if they knew me,
This is scaring me.
The criminal clearly wasn't expecting to find me there. He looked back at me with an expression of sheer balaclava written all over his face.
What had he been taught? For the social good, you must be your own policeman and witness. You must assume responsibility for any crime which might conceivably be yours.
The face of the informer stared impassively at him. It was Barrent’s own face, reflected back from a mirror on the wall.
I saw that my face wasn’t my face at all but a face that I lived behind and was welded to by a billion nerves. I looked into my eyes and saw that there was something looking back at me that was not me, not what I’d taken to be me. The unrefined ocean beyond the shallow pool was cascading through the mirror back at me. Nature looking at nature. Not me, little ol’ Russ, tossed about on turbulent seas; these distinctions were engineered. On acid, these realizations are absolute. The disobedient brain is whipped into its basket like a yapping hound cowed by Cesar Millan.
I wore that because it makes me look beautiful. I stare at myself in the mirror and I think, "Wow, I'm really great-looking." … I think I'm the greatest, anyway.
I went back to staring tomorrow in the face. Better than looking backward. But tomorrow refused to shed its mask.
What it sees there isn't so much a face as the expression of a predicament.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked awful, but I always look awful in the mirror. I keep myself going with the firm belief that my real face is much better looking.
The face staring back at me isn't beautiful but she isn't something that would scare the horses, either.