you both project your own desires and fears into what you only assume permeates this tissue. a marionette exists both as its own limp body mechanism, and a shrine to it's master's will. what you see when you lock your gaze with mine is yourself amalgamated and meshed through the netting of my surgical wire. you and i, we may look at the same visage, but you and I, we are not similar in the way that comes across. and you, so pungent with terror, look at my own observations and see a message carefully hidden by your own subconscious, but believe i was the one who placed it there. but, what really scares you, not the way you think i am perverted or mentally mangled, but the fact you recognize your own hand writing.

in some ways you're like a master surgeon, where you've torn apart your body and brain, each muscle and sling cut to be independent, like an automaton you've sliced yourself up beyond recognition, and you're now confused when your hands and feet go in all different directions without your command. they rebel like a child begging to be held, and you refuse. you find solace in your operating table, like hypnosis, your mind puppets your body, and you leave a piece of yourself inside every incision. you've given away yourself.

i can even hear now, your joints and organs scream for you to integrate them, you've become something between a zombie and a puppet.