Paprika
Little worms, they start as small, insignificant. But then they begin to feed, as as they feed they grow, and swell, until they consume you whole and the brain is nothing more than a twisted, writhing mess of all-consuming, self-perpetuating doubt.
The words couldn't have been spoken more abruptly, couldn't have taken him by more surprise. They were bitter; eight words full of years of strife and anger, yet they also possessed a certain honesty that was impossible to ignore.
"I don't want to be with you anymore."
All false, nothing but smoke and mirrors and lip gloss and hair product. False images, false faces, empty eyes. She gazes into mirrors all day long, glossy and flat and sleek and silver. A world of reflections, devoid of humans, only clay waiting to be molded. Shaped. Refined. Stylized. Taking a reflection of something living, a flat, poor rendition of beauty, and transforming it into yet another image. Empty, empty, eyes gazing at reflections of life, but unable to retain their own.