(Hammill)

If I'm the mirror and you're the image
then what's the secret between the two,
these 'me's and 'you's, how many can there be?
Oh, I don't mind all that around the place,
as long as you keep it
well away from me

I've begun to regret that we ever met
between the dimensions
It gets such a strain to pretend that the change
is anything but cheap
with your infant pique and your angst pretensions
sometimes you act like a creep

And now I'm standing in the corner,
looking at the room and the furniture
in cheap imitation of alienation and grief
And now we're going to the kitchen,
fix ourselves a drink and a cigarette,
getting no closer to being the joker or thief

Still, I reflect, this nervous wreck
who stands before me can see as well,
can surely tell that he's not yet free;
he can turn aside, but can no more ignore me
than know which one of us is he,
than tell what we are going to be,
than know which one of is me

And now we're going to the kitchen,
fix ourselves a drink and a cigarette,
getting no closer to being the joker or thief

These mirror images,
these mirror images
won't stay, go away, are no help

In these mirror images of myself
there are no secrets