Walking past the darkened glass I see myself going nowhere fast. Time is a mirror, and I am late, the mirror says. Mind is a mirror, too, and known only by reflection. The shops are closed. In the window, I’ve become another display, a moving picture true to life as life is true to mirrors. Eyes seem to understand, but how much can light be trusted? You’ve shown me photographs. Light can’t be explained, you said, but truth is always naked, disguised (in mirrors, or the mind) as reflection. What I see changes. Your eyes, a mirror from the start, tell me who I am, make of nakedness something to be trusted. Seeing, at last believing.