In the mirror, we look for what we instantly recognize; not our first selves, or our original face but, rather, what has always been the same over the years. For some, it's a smile; for others, a quizzical look. To see in that image before us beyond the lines that tell us what we've become-the loves, the hatreds, the joys and confusions etched on our faces- to perceive, once again, what we always were, as if that was all of these things and yet at the same time none of them.

Everyone who looks at a mirror thinks of time passing, of the years that have floated away like clouds. The appearance of grey stubble remind you of an old black dog, quite lost, you once saw on Glastonbury Avenue.

Grey mirror of mine. Sky. Desert. Glass. Stone. No mirror can hold what will be, or the 'heaven of lost futures'; so many images jostle for space, find your name, only one remains icily aloof, like the cold silver that was the image before the image, time before time. The tree stump summarizes being; absence roots us to ourselves.