Faces

Every person is another person’s face. Every subjective mood lights a face. Every conversation is a further inspection of a face. Every person is a die we roll, hoping for one face to turn up. Every face ages and grows tired. Every face appears and vanishes. Every face is called upon by its own angle and sees the world at its own angle. Only one face can be read at a time, but all are diligently reading for their upturned chance to be read. Faces imprint themselves on other faces, but a master of faces imprints themselves on other dice.