You instinctively glance back at the mirror to study your reflection but it’s not there anymore. There are no poems for you, nor any school of wailing ladies swimming in receding rocky lakes of sorrow. Every part of you has been replaced, your lines rewritten, reimagined, your role re cast. A celluloid worm on the editing floor curling with cramps of joy. Our producers running the numbers one more time, the audience polls confirm, without you the show can and will go on. The B movie is over the credits roll. It’s official you aren’t here now and you weren’t there at all.