I read a comic once when I was a kid, where this guy’s body was controlled from inside by all these tiny versions of himself, like some warped kind of Matryoshka doll marionette. I presume it was intended as light-hearted humour, though in retrospect there’s an oddly sinister edge to the concept.

I thought about that while I was shaving; the gel I use is oddly similar in appearance and texture to a male bodily fluid that I care not to think too much about.

How many hairs? one of them would say, staring in wonder through from the back of my mechanical eyeballs, watching the sink fill up with discarded hair. It’s like a little Vietnam in that sink. Body hair instead of trees, but smells about the same.

Many, sir, the other would reply from within the tangled mass of rusting cables inside my brain.

Many.

Life, such that it is: a conglomeration of supremely wasted time, irradiated eyeballs slowly wasting away staring at imaginary worlds — worlds of Warcraft, indeed — while my corporeal form gradually decays under the malnutritious regime of Pepsi Max, abhorrently-branded “Xtreme” Pringles, and bland microwave ready-meals which provide barely the minimal amount of sustenance in order to avoid untimely death.

So now you can stop wondering.