the face

sometimes, a second before i look at the mirror (when i know i'm going to), i fear what i'll find. the phantom of madness resting, unscathed, in my left shoulder. evil sleeping, but such a lovely evil. i recall some spilled wine on the floor, a petal or two and torn sheets. one should notice: you can't recall such things, for you never lived them.

pervasively absent, seconds before i look myself at the mirror, are the hopes and fears of some things that never existed. i fear i might recognise an insane man. even, that starring back at me, in that strange surface, will be a face i never saw, a different boy, a different story of a different book.

and i try to fall asleep as fast as i can.