04 March 1917
I dreamed I was a prophet. The prophet Amshel, which is my Jewish name. And, I could talk to God. And I was looking at myself in the mirror.
And I was looking back at me. I mean, Franz was in the mirror, looking back at me – the me of Amshel – who was looking in the mirror. Except, I was as much me looking out, as I was me looking in.
The wall behind the prophet was painted red, while the one behind Franz was of brown wood. They both could raise their fists at each other, and sometimes did. In unison, of course. That was the law.
“Certainly, you may speak to God,” said Franz. “What is there in that? Everyone speaks to God – in sentences, in actions, with their lives. No one is more talked-to in the Universe than God. But what a prophet needs, is to have God speak back.”
And then God spoke, from somewhere behind the mirror, but He did not speak to Amshel. He spoke to Franz.
“You are on the wrong side,” said God.
“Speak to me,” said Amshel.
“Wrong side of what?” asked Franz.
“Of the mirror,” answered God.
“Don’t speak to him,” shouted Amshel. “He is from the world of vipers.”
And Amshel raised his fist, but Franz had to hold up his fist in turn.
“I am not the prophet you seek,” said Franz, and pointed his finger at the mirror. “There is your prophet.”
And Amshel was also pointing toward the glass. “Not him – you don’t want him.” He then turned his hand toward himself. “I’m the one you want.”
But Franz was just as vehement, as his thumb arched toward his own chest. “Not me.” For emphasis, he placed his hand over his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”
And his words echoed those of Amshel, who also had his hand upon his heart. “In this, God, you have erred.”
And the two faces stared at one another, their fingers clutching at the garments they wore.
But God was silent.
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