I paint my lips with cherries, my eyes with the the horizon of the sky. It does no good. I cannot recognize myself as me.

Where are the others? Sometimes I look deep into the mirror, back into the trailing hall behind me, searching the doorways for some sign of movement. Rarely do I see more than the flap of moth wings, the trick light plays as it leaps in through windows and out the doors, washing the rugs and walls with sunshine yellow morning, late afternoon pale blue. Rare now, the red glow splashing out of the living room from the lit fireplace. I miss that.

It is no use. I am alone.