A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Masks

A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: Masks

The first time the officers showed me a holo of Cayle, I said I’d never seen him. It was true, when you get down to it. I mean, I knew it was him because I’d seen the picture all over the place, but ceci n’est pas une pipe, and all that.

Same thing goes for the network, cloud or undertubes. It’s not like he looks anything like that picture in there, not even enough for the nice little tag line. None of us do, the real ones, and that’s the point. Someone should’ve told Llewellyn that, but he wouldn’t have got it, not really. He was most comfortable in his own skin, enough to recreate it. Prototypers never were. That was part of the point.

My face isn’t the one on my warrant, any more than Cayle’s was. My face is smooth on the surface, faceted underneath, made of gem stone that smiles. My eyes are clear crystal, and I’m just me, not that woman, not that man, just me.

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