The problem is not the taste.
It is that the taste changes depending on who remembers it.
The first time I notice something metallic in my mouth. It does not come from any prior action. It arrives later, as if the room added it once verification was no longer possible.
There is a glass on the table.
I look at it without touching it.
It is full.
When I look away, it is empty.
When I look back, it is full again.
There is no transition between states.
Only incompatible versions insisting on coexisting.
I try to decide which state is real.
The moment I try, the glass stops mattering.
A mark appears on the wood of the table.
A thin line, like pressure from something that should not leave traces.
I wipe it with my finger.
In the mirror, it remains.
I do not feel surprise.
I feel adjustment.
The air in the room does not change.
It reorganizes.
As if each breath selects a different version of the same space.
I look at my hands.
There is a faint white mark on my index finger.
It does not exist in the mirror.
It exists on the table.
It exists in my memory as well.
They do not match.
They do not compete.
They accumulate.
The glass disappears again.
It does not fall.
It does not move.
It simply loses permission to exist in the same state as me.
The silence becomes more precise.
And then something smaller happens.
The neck appears as an instruction before it appears as a sensation.
I have to move my neck.
It is not thought.
It is a sentence already executed elsewhere, leaving only its echo here.
I try to remember when it started.
There is no beginning.
Only iterations.
I lift my gaze toward the mirror.
My reflection has already finished the movement.
I have not started yet.
And for the first time I notice the real anomaly:
the reflection does not imitate me.
it precedes me.
I have to move the neck there is no neck I am not moving it I should…
