There is an other, there, in the mirror. Memory space. A body without a head. There is movement. Abstract thought. A girl moves her lips. Air brushes against your own, but it is foreign. The staccato of her breath moulds waves of language. Indivisible meaning that slips your grasp. Traffic stills. Fumes rise from cracked pavement. A child sleeps under a rusting skyline. A mother overdoses. It is Autumn. Cold snatches another eight, or eighty. Cells rearrange, and a man finds himself changed. He holds a knife to your throat. You laugh until he cries. The train comes late. You walk around the block to **** time. You find you no longer recognise the buildings surrounding you. There is misery in your reflection, but it is just the other looking back and smiling.