I continue to see figures in the mirror while I attend to my ablutions, but they no longer attempt to contact me as they once did.  They seem now only to be passing, as if my mirror were little more than a connecting platform between two disparate modes of transport.  My own reflection is more perfectly recognizable as my own than has ever before been the case, a circumstance which gave me quite a turn once I recognized it.  He then sang “O sole mi,” but would not give up the libretto, so I remain uncertain what I mean in the choice of the season’s entertainment wonder as an attempt at communication.  It’s all clicks and whistles and bar, bar, bar.

I hope I have not gone mad.  I hope that this, madness I mean, is not the reason for my abandonment.  I thought better of the Candleman, at least; his soul was always so soothing, so reassuring in the night.  Now, only the cockroaches will approach me, begging for suffrage. It is all so unbearable.  Or were my midnight friends only cockroaches all along?