Careless gravel and dust strewn about as the sun sets and your reflection wanes; alternate daylit mirrors wax over the blurred remnants of the shape you were, fattening the thin, fucking up the perfect, fading the strength of your lonely daily measured sense of self. You do it the same the next day. We’ll sit there and watch ourselves peak in the noon and fall in the night, right before bed when the most persecuting agent in life, in real life, is your dreams. That desperate time when you really, really are alone. Locked away in your head, you think the real hiding is when you wake up and say to yourself, it was only a dream.