I don’t know what you’d think seeing me at the mirror now.  I always linger, my eyes hovering about my image:  my hairline, my pores and lips, the contours of my jawbone, a nostril, wrinkled skin, the eyes themselves.  My expression is always neutral, empty.  It seems I am searching for something, I don’t know what, the impetus hidden from my consciousness (a euphemism for the fact that I am the one doing the hiding).  But I persist, obsessively, knowing all the while that I will find nothing but a face both familiar and utterly alien, a face providing no comfort, no answer, no relief from my inscrutable quest, a face, my face.