Two mirrors face each other and reflect an endless portrait of the face between them. When the eleventh reflection deviates from the first is when you have consciousness. “I’m tired.” “I know I told you you may see what you wish.” “I never said that.” “Ha ha; don’t you see it’s an illusion?” The mind fills in the blank part and pretends all layers are in the same constant focus. I work it out like the draft of a poem. It doesn’t need to make sense at first. When critics observed that Picasso’s portrait of Gertude Stein didn’t resemble her, he said, “It will.”