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But close."

Their eyes peered into each other. The boy was tempted to withdraw his gaze to the fire, but would not risk it. Something had changed outside – there was a faint, as of yet unidentified, sound beneath the flames.

"Already you have begun. The question, the urge..., has begun to soak your mind. You ask for your self. As I have asked."

The sound beneath the flames rose and revealed itself as a violin. Yet, there was something wrong with the notes it played...

The man spoke, "The violin sounds, but does not make music."

The man who was going to kill him was right, the boy realized. The violin sounded with chaotic streaks of noise - a deep wavering barely separate from that of the fire. There was no rhythm or melody, just noise.

"How could that be?" The boy said softly.

"How could it be otherwise?" The man who would kill him responded, and then after a thought's moment, "Once I had a name. I've ceased using it. Names tend to summarize all too easily. But without a name, I realized, there was no way of telling people who I was."

He returned to the mirror before continuing, "Without a name, how do you answer that question? "Who are you?" What do you tell people, if not your name? Your job? Your religion? No. They don't answer the question, you see. After all, if you were alone in the wilderness you wouldn't have a job. Or a religion... you'd simply be," the man laughed, then looked down at his attire, "But what about these clothes? Surely they are some reflection of my self? Surely they can partly answer the question? But no. They are a display of my mind... and my mind is not my own."

The man unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, and then threw the white fabric to the floor. It landed beside the towel, which was now beginning to seep water into the wood.

The boy could see the man's back. Scars stretched across it.

The man continued to speak as he undid his belt, "These clothes? These are not who I am. These words? These ideas that I communicate? No."

He dropped his belt, pants and underwear to the ground, exposing himself fully. The man turned to his victim.

"I am not ideas. I am not opinions. I am not likes and dislikes. I am not perceptions. Not beliefs or passions... I am only this body. These arms... these legs," he spoke, raising each limb in turn, "Face, head, hair... these hands. My feet, my genitals. Heart, lungs, liver... These are the things that I am. And nothing else. I am a body. The thoughts that run through it? My ways? They are not self – merely things imposed. I am soulless, mindless and hopeless."

The man moved close to the boy, making the young one uncomfortable, "Nevertheless I have tried to ‘live'. I have tried to rise above the crowd. To separate. But my perception failed and in the end, even now, I'm only lying. As I've always done... willingly."

He moved back to the basin, opening a drawer beneath it. The man who was going to kill the boy took hold of the knife lying inside of it. He raised the blade to the mirror, then brushed its edge against his fingertips – but not with enough pressure to split the skin.