A splash of flesh and bones among silver, blurry but all too honest. Skin that never matches porcelain. Eyes dim, always reacting a moment too slow, running in circles as the nature of your appearance sinks in, tired and all too real. Running. Away. Back. In loops. Soon enough you are lost in yourself (is it yourself?) and your reflection is not a singular journey anymore, but multiple winding roads, shattered across time and space. A line that shows a battle fought, begrudgingly given up to circumstance. A grimace that reflects your father’s face, that of lost hours spent with smoke slowly wafting from cracked lips. And the dull plane of your features, never quite right or defined, thrown violently back at you with force only you yourself could inflict. It’s wrong. It’s right. It’s you.