It all began when I woke up.

I looked down at my hands. They were different than they were yesterday. I tried to convince myself that it was the light, or, that I was only immagining it but they seemed to be less like the hands I remembered and more like hands I would have to forget- strangers hands, wrinkled and liver spotted with skin parchment like, translucent, bloodless, that made me feel cold and distant and somehow threatened by them- as if they were meant to hold things I'd just as soon leave well enough alone.

Artifacts of ancient wars scatter the once pristine stretches of virgin innocence that I remember as being me. My once supple body is a graceless, time scarred reflector within which ordinary things: white hair and tattered fragments of skin, reassemble themselves into tents on a stretch of beach and seagulls circling above a black haired child at the oceans edge. A scrap of scab on his hand becomes a boat upon whose deck wrapped in leather and iron he watches dawn break above a foreign harbor.

I stared back from the other side of the mirror at a memory that somehow escaped me while I slept.