The table is ready.
He sat down at the table, gracefully, his attention turning again to repetition. The surface and the inside of the mirror seemed to be responding to each other, and he felt that he was slowly fading away.
"Through this form of dinner, I have to admit that I can no longer express my joy." The deep voice broke the density of the air. The expression on the other side was like a soulless marble sculpture, more distant than the smallest and most insignificant emotion.
Is this a family dinner or a psychoanalysis?