The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome.
There's always more to see.
The mirror is believed the way a poem is believed. It's believed because it's there.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
A culture, we all know, is made by its cities.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.