I walk down the hallway, knees clacking with un-stretched morning joints. I near the looking glass at the end of the hall and curiously I gaze at the reflection. Dumbfounded, I jerk and twitch to see if he can follow my every move. Undoubtedly so he does, he does so with such circumspection that it is an exact replica of myself. What is beyond this pane of glass, past this manifestation? Is there anything further than the replication of body? Is there replication of soul? Frightening myself, I remove the hanging phenomenon from the wall. Examining every curve, I can find nothing more than an echo of my body, an image of my being. I ask no further questions about the duplication of spirit and continue on with my morning.
I waltz my way down the staircase, careful not to stumble over my own two feet as the slide their way out of my turquoise slippers. I open the daily paper to see, once again, the tragedies of the world displayed on my breakfast table in an array of black and white.