Literature
Orthodox
I sometimes wonder if living means to live a lie.
If people wear masks that'd otherwise be considered invisible.
The clinking of champagne glasses mock me. Ambassadors in gowns and suits scatter around the room, but still they have me surrounded. Have me in their sights. And their every breath poisons the air.
They'll catch on eventually. Not a guess, a fact.
The peacock to my left glances away from my direction, but his tail feathers have eyes painted on them, eyes that keep staring at me. I also catch faint sparkles around the room where light bounces off small lenses—cameras in every corner. Some hidden, some carried by others. Gotta
