In the dim light of an aging bathroom, Oliver Jones scrutinized his reflection. There was a blemish on his chin—a patch of reality that seemed disturbingly distorted, like looking through模糊的 shaving cream. He leaned closer, hoping to scrape away the fuzziness with his razor, shrouded in its own aura of mundane terror.

“You again,” said a voice from the mirror. Not Oliver’s voice, but something between a chuckle and a whisper. A voice that belonged to a reflection that didn’t quite obey the rules of reality.

“You know this isn’t normal, right?” Oliver muttered, gripping the sink as if he might fall into the depths of his own hallucination.

“Normal is just a setting on a washing machine,” the mirror replied with cheerful logic. Its Oliver smirked as if sharing a private joke, one born from Kundera’s philosophical trysts with being.

“But how do I know what’s real then?” Oliver asked, voice tinged with existential dread.

“Isn’t that the question of the century?” the mirror shot back, its tone both mocking and reflective—a black humor that gnawed at the edges of Oliver’s understanding.

Oliver tore himself away, half expecting the mirror to cackle behind him. In the kitchen, his wife, Clara, was spreading jelly on toast, unaware of the surreal calamity brewing in her husband’s mind.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she observed, barely looking up.

“More like a ghost saw me,” Oliver replied, trying to reshape his voice into something casual, but it came out cracked and uneven, like an old vinyl.

Clara frowned, genuine concern breaking through the crust of everyday banter. “You’ve got to let this go, Ollie. Or see someone. It’s just a razor and some shaving cream.”

“模糊的 shaving cream, actually.”

The absurdity of it hung in the air, an invisible presence that seemed ridiculous yet menacing. Clara put down her knife, hands floating aimlessly above the table as though trying to catch hold of Oliver’s unraveling sanity.

“You can’t keep questioning everything. You’ll go mad,” she said softly, her eyes pleading with reason. “What if what’s real is just… this? Toast and orange marmalade and Monday mornings?”

Oliver swallowed thickly, the weight of her words pressing against the tumors of his doubt. “What if none of it is?”

Clara sighed—a sound heavy with the exasperation of living with a man forever tethered to philosophical quagmires. She got up and kissed his cheek, a simple act of love that grounded him momentarily.

Later, Oliver sat in front of the mirror. The bathroom lights buzzed softly, casting an eerie halo around the glass. He picked up the razor again—his instrument of existential demolition—and looked into the eyes that weren’t quite his own.

“You know,” the mirror began, its reflection a twisted cathedral of Oliver’s mundane fears, “what’s truly horrifying isn’t the fuzz. It’s that you’ll shave it away, and you’ll still be you.”

Oliver smiled grimly. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll try growing a beard.”

Behind him, in the murk of fading light, the mirror laughed—lines of reality blurring into black humor. The sound was both an ending and a beginning, echoing the relentless absurdity of existence.

As Oliver turned off the light, he left the模糊的 shaving cream waiting in the dark for another day’s reflection—a mirror of ambiguity, where the horror lay not in the unseen, but in the certainty of seeing.

With this, Oliver stepped back into the rhythm of ordinary life, where everything seemed too laughably real to be otherwise.