Suddenly life seems long, stretched out. Scenes I'd forgotten display on an internal screen. Could these memories be mine? Do they belong to another me? They're intangible. How can it be that I was that person and ended up me?
People I haven't thought about in a millennia, now dance across my vision telling me their secrets, heartache and happiness. Could I be so cruel to dismiss their life in my actions, my passions, to dismiss that they've produced the man I see in the mirror