The world is a string of bubbles. Each bubble is a smaller world and within each one is another world until all you have is a tiny spherical sheer shiny egg-bubble holding a person, separate yet connected to the rest of the world. Mostly separate. When a bubble pops another bubble already has encased its contents. When you look through the layers of filmy greasy dream-colored skin of bubble within bubble within bubble within bubble within bubble, reality gets blurred, filtered, distorted by perspective. This is why you can't see my pained grimace when you laugh forcedly and loudly, why I can't see why you're so cold at times. This is why isolation is inescapable.