John steadily struck the massive stone with his hammer. A hiss accompanied each blow. Again and again. Tiny splinters flew in all directions.

He worked faster and harder until the stone became the right shape. The last sound of the setting hammer faded, and John surveyed his work with pride. Sweat dampened his forehead. His T-shirt clung to his back. He felt a tiny, cool breeze intensely.

John took a deep breath and looked around the workshop, examining his tools and materials— he was instantly overcome by a feeling of security. This was how he had always imagined it in a mother’s arms, a kind mother, not one who had sent him to war. The workshop had long been his little paradise. In this place, his mind was free of everything. Here he was home.

Together with her.

Oh no! Not her again! He especially wanted to break free from her. John’s greatest wish was to finally escape her. But he just couldn’t. He couldn’t get rid of her; she was always there.

Oh yes, she is. She’s everywhere, like a curse.

Why had John given the unknown ancient woman that push? He’d returned from the front dejected. How could he have known what would happen if he didn’t grant her wish? The old woman was determined to fish that stupid lighter out of the stone well. But who throws something like that into a well? It would be ruined and unusable anyway… it had struck him as extremely odd. Perhaps he’d overreacted a bit. These things happen! For goodness’ sake. She shouldn’t have fallen straight down the well shaft.

He swallowed.

She’s here, say hello!

Again, a cool breeze touches his skin.

For the first time, John felt threatened in his workshop. He had no other choice; he had to end it once and for all, defeat her. Determined, he grabbed his stone axe and hurried outside into the adjacent woods. The air was thick with the stench of wild garlic—horrible—and the birdsong was painful to his ears.

There is no escape!

To live with her forever? The thought made John really angry. It brought tears to his eyes. He stumbled from tree to tree, over thick roots, and felt her heavy footsteps approaching. “Where are you? I’ll show you who’s stronger!”

Stomp! Stomp!

The monotonous thumping of the forest floor made John stagger and dizzy. The world seemed to tilt. Trees collapsed around him. John stumbled on, through bushes, fell, tasted the moss and the peaty earth, kicking like a child. His fingers clenched tightly around the axe. Too much wild garlic, wild garlic everywhere!

Stomp! Stomp!

The thought of her bored into his brain like a corkscrew.

STAMP! You can’t run from her!

She leaned over John and looked at him. Effortlessly, she twisted John’s body. Again, that cold, quiet breath wrapped him. Black.

Let her in! Yes, let her into your very core.

Suddenly, silence. Not even birdsong. Only this loud, chilling stillness.

And then he was forced to look into her face, the old woman from back then. Her face was as white as paper. The eyes in their dark sockets glittered. Her cheeks, the wrinkles painted with black, chaotic lines, contorted as she grinned at John like a clown.

She raised her blue hand in greeting.

So, do we begin now, John? Or how long will you hide from me?

This couldn’t be happening! He knew the vile things the ghost woman did to him… It felt like being attacked by hungry rats in a cell with no way out. He could already hear the furious scratching of their claws.

Drowsy, he crawled forward on the moss, millimeter by millimeter. He was no longer capable of thinking clearly. Trapped in his spiral of sheer terror, all he wanted was to end it. The old woman’s voice hammered into John’s brain. With every breath, it penetrated deeper and deeper. He had no choice but to escape her once and for all!

Here she is, John! Don’t run away!

He lingered, struggled to his feet, swung the axe, paused—the world collapsed around him again. His stomach clenched, and he vomited. A salty, metallic taste! The smell of bile filled his nostrils. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Blood! His heart pounded as he looked at the axe in his hand. The old woman must not win again, never again! He jumped to his feet and strode toward her.

John drew back his arm. A powerful blow—a maniacal laugh—another strike—black blood on his axe. Speckled wild garlic.

Hahaha! This time he wouldn’t lose! Hahaha! Not this time!

No one heard his cries. And then it was over.

Oh, please! No applause. It was an honor!

“You are pure chaos. I can’t live with you by my side. I need to find my things so I can function, so I can make progress in what I do!”

“And who asked you? Your system gives me the creeps. I didn’t even know there was a sorting scheme. All I know is that it changes every single day!”

“Because you destroy it every single day!”

“No. I’m just trying to find my things so I can function, just like you!”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do too!”

“We are both looking for our things, so why don’t we just separate?”

“Because it’s not possible. You are a huge part of my life.”

“So are you.”

Both of them looked down, avoiding each other’s gaze.

After a while, the author said, “This is ridiculous. I need to think.”

The protagonist took a seat on a chair piled high with books.

“Hey, be careful! I just sorted those!” the author shouted, but the books all crashed to the floor.

“I’m sorry. Maybe you have too much stuff.”

“But I need it. All of these things might push me into a dimension of truly great authors.”

“Seriously? What about us, the protagonists? Do those books tell you how to write us so you’ll finally be recognized—by whoever?”

The author looked at his creation and reached for a bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a glass.

Meanwhile, the protagonist continued. “Or is it something else? Something that forms deep inside you? Secrets, mysteries, absurdities?”

“Well…”

The protagonist jumped off the chair. “You don’t need to sort everything. You don’t even need most of it! Just write!”

The writer took a long sip. The mental noise began to settle.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “You got me.”

He sat down at his desk.

While the protagonist stood behind him, the author wrote: Books and other items for sale. Garage sale next Thursday.

He hit “print” and began packing everything into boxes.

“No more chaos,” the protagonist murmured as the writer finished stowing everything away.

“No more sorting,” the author muttered, watching the boxes stack up.

They shook hands.

“Peace?”

“Peace.”

CNs

Nudity/Shibari
Voyeurism/Exhibitionism
Shame/Psychological Exposure

“Desireeeeeeeeeeee!” Ella knocked vigorously on her friend’s door right after ringing the bell. The wood vibrated under her flat hand. “Come on, open up! That artist is in town — you know, the Mirror-Fame person! And she’s setting up her cage here!” She slapped the old timber door again.
Desiree appeared in her pajamas. “Are you trying to make the house collapse? And why are you shouting? It’s not even eight yet!”
Ella swept past her with practiced gallantry. “If only I had a key …” She stopped when she saw Desiree’s face. “But I’m so excited — the Cage of Desire! Here, in our town! I didn’t even know Mirror-Fame was doing a performance here.” She waved her phone like proof.
Desiree sighed and closed the door slowly. “Let me at least take a shower first.”
Ella grinned and peeled off her jacket. “I know something that would wake you up faster. That cage!”
“Oh, Ella, please. Make us some coffee first.”
That was a deal. Ella shuffled to the kitchen and stuffed the coffee machine. Then she sat down at the table, staring at the Mirror-Fame page on her phone.

“naked in front of someone” – A Performance of Desire for Everyone
Location: Atelierhaus 2.0
Date: When you’re ready
Format: Live performance with webcam

Looking for a place where you can show yourself — not for likes, not for clicks, but simply because you are?
In the golden cage of our installation “Naked Before Someone”, you may enter, undress, dance, stand still, or just breathe.
A mirror will face you. A webcam will be above you.
You decide whether it streams globally — or just locally.
It’s not about giving others a show, but about honesty in nakedness — and, if you wish, in desire.
It’s about the moment when gaze, body, and courage meet. Whether you tremble, laugh, or let go — anything is allowed, as long as it’s real.

Note:
This installation may evoke emotionally challenging responses. Please be careful if you have unresolved issues in this area. We’re not professionals and may not be able to provide the stability you need.
Participants must explicitly consent to being filmed or streamed.
Participants must be 18 or older (yes, we check IDs).
Register at: lust@mirror-fame-project.com

Scrolling up and down, Ella already felt a tingle between her thighs. Now she only had to convince Desiree. Nowhere did it say you had to go in alone. And besides, she was dying to know what the Mirror-Fame artist was really like. In interviews she was always so cryptic. But the mirror cage — that was a damn good idea.

How many people had already shown themselves before that webcam? Ella hadn’t yet found out where the streams were available. She tried again on a well-known video platform: the project was introduced there on Mirror-Fames page, but no link to the cam. Maybe the links were private — generated for specific people? Or perhaps there was a hidden site only for those who had already participated. Yes. That must be it.
Desiree returned, dressed but with damp hair.
Ella stand up and started the coffee machine. “Where’s the hairdryer?”
“Over there,” Desiree replied. “I was going to air dry.”
“Oh, nonsense, I’ll do it for you.”
A few minutes later, Ella stood behind her with the dryer in hand. “See? Didn’t take long. Coffee’s ready too. Stay seated, I’ll pour.” She set two steaming cups on the table. “Take a look at this ad — ‘Naked Before Someone.’ Performance in a cage, with a webcam. I think it’s… kind of brilliant.”

Desiree: Brilliant? That’s a generous word for completely off. You’re not actually planning to step into a cage and livestream yourself, are you?
Ella: Well, it’s not just about streaming. It’s about showing yourself as you are. The feeling of being seen. Or something like that.
Desiree: Please. You could just stand naked in front of a mirror. Congratulations on your most expensive therapy session ever — and I mean expensive in viewers. Who knows who’ll be watching?
Ella: Maybe that’s the point. The audience can’t like or comment. No filters. Just me — and the possibility that someone might see me.
Desiree: Hm. So, like Schrödinger’s nakedness. Seen and unseen at the same time.
Ella: Exactly! And if it goes wrong, at least I’ll have a story to tell. I mean, I’m not carrying old trauma around — otherwise, I probably wouldn’t dare.
Desiree: I don’t know, Ella. I don’t need a cage to feel weird. I have a family.
Ella: Oh, come on. Not that again. But seriously, you could watch from home. I’ll send you the link.
Desiree: Great. I’ll be having breakfast while watching my friend existentially undress. I can get that experience right here, without an audience.
Ella: You’d be my safety line.
Desiree: And if really something goes wrong? I am here, not there.
Ella: What could go wrong? I’m just naked before someone. Part of an art installation.
Desiree: Fine. I want to see it. Maybe.

The whole conversation felt surreal to Ella. They sipped their coffee in turns, eyes glinting with mischief and doubt.

That same day, Ella sent an email to the address listed. She got a slot two days later.

When the time came, Desiree opened the Mirror-Fame site on her laptop, clicked on a discreet link labeled Live Performance, and waited — but the screen stayed blank. Great. Ella paid with her nakedness, and she got an empty feed. All that was missing was a 404 error. Hopefully Ella was fine. Why did she always have to do these absurd things?

Then, suddenly, letters began to flicker across the screen, rearranging themselves into a message:

“Maybe that’s the art. Emptiness. Conceptual.”

Pfffffft. Desiree snapped the laptop shut and got dressed. The old house shuddered as she slammed the door behind her.

Meanwhile, Ella stood inside the cage — naked, her hands tied behind her back. That had been her choice, so she couldn’t hide her face. She wanted to see herself. The floor was colder than expected, the light harsher. She looked down, unsure. It wasn’t as arousing as she had imagined — more uncomfortable, but bearable. The room was empty except for her, the cage and the camera. Everyone else had tactfully withdrawn — though she knew they were probably glued to the feed, wondering what this Ella was doing.

Slowly, she raised her gaze. The mirror stared back mercilessly. Behind her, the camera’s tiny red light disturbed the spotless glass. She saw herself — not like at home, not like in Desiree’s mirror. She saw imperfection: uneven breasts, small and a bit sagging, her knees, her pubic hair, her slightly too-thin backside. So what.

Desiree reached the Atelierhaus. She wasn’t allowed near the cage while Ella was inside; that had to be arranged beforehand. So she waited before another functioning webcam. She wondered why Ella was bound, but she’d always been drawn to rope art — Shibari and all that — though Desiree herself knew nothing about it. She watched closely, waiting for Ella’s next move.

Ella took a deep breath, blew a strand of hair from her face, and closed her eyes. Her body softened. In that moment of absolute stillness, a shiver ran through her.

Ella whispered, “Someone’s watching.”
Desiree touched the screen lightly. “Someone likes that.”