I have never had an original idea in my life, but neither have you, he said, finger pointing out towards the man in the mirror. And he's a crazy man, anyway, you thought, so that I could feel better about myself, but all this was still inside his head and mine. It wasn't out in the open. You are not the type of person to talk about these things. I am the sort who keeps them locked up. And that's a lie, I guess, he thought, as he typed it up for you, but then again, I had never been one to tell the truth. Never one to lie, but also not just one, and just not that interested in truth because truth was only fiction with tyranny and even my sort of communism is not something you think of as practical: he understood that there was always a dominating force, always someone walking into the picture and saying, "Hey! You, out there, you, man, yes! you: you're going to have to listen to me."
I'm calling that a prose poem. Inspired by this from December's Poetry: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=240834
Edit: This is the epigraph: "The me you know, he had some second thoughts." from The Becoming, Nine Inch Nails; adding it at the end because I came to it after writing the piece, and didn't want to make it seem as if this had sparked the paragraph.
Second Edit: The official title of this piece is "Psychology, a Paragraph," and it is part of a larger work called TEXTBOOK which may or may not show up in ebooks are spineless which may or may not ever exist. I have written and will edit and post a secondary work within TEXTBOOK soon, entitled "Sociology in Sentences."