A novel that isn't; a novel that is the rambling of a man exhibiting the symptoms of a hashish haze. That's what we have. We also have an opportunity to dig into an individual's psyche and view all its quirks. The human mind, it's a fertile area of action that isn't real. What does that mean? Sometimes, the action hero is merely the neurotic sitting alone analyzing every idea and movement. That's what we have in our story. Here's a short excerpt: .."..Looking at myself in the mirror, eying the face. Ugly looking bastard, at least to me. Like to be alone and view the sight in the mirror. Backwards I can go, eying, making faces, grabbing my nose, twisting it, looking for the hidden reality. Is this vain? Is this boredom? Why do I do this? Why do I do anything. I want to impress others with my looks. I want to be noticed. I want women to whisper how attractive I am, how they want to possess and cherish me. I want to be raised on a pedestal because of my appearance. That's why the mirror is my friend; that's why I am the mirror. Inventing, why was it invented? So monkeys like us could eye and concentrate the exterior. Eying ourselves in pictures, videos, the obsession we don't ever discuss. Eying with the eye, the eye created by who for what purpose? The eye, catching the sights but the sounds, catching the overall but not the particular. I'm sick of it, sick of people, sick of people and their mirrors."