the second self. Captives to a seeing, we hold our ground for fear that in looking away we might loose ourselves. Perspectives collide, springing from the dust of our minds the stale metaphors of long forgotten dogmas. Reason, thy conspiracy is thick with the blood of lost souls and cities; whole peoples buried in the glance of foreign categories, stuffed into shells of pseudo- understanding. Here, and across this decade I have seen a thousand faces of discontent, flashing in the passing window; laughing selfishly from a subway door; mocking my eyes deep in brown solitude, and teasing this apprehension to recall its own countenance. Stranger, Nay, there is never a stranger look than this greeting my own reflection. Who are you? I sing a word a note the lips move and a distant memory dances across the shadow of the tortured face in the mirror. Hello?