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I got in the face in the mirror and let him have it. I was relentless as Klamath Falls in early spring. My voice rose to fever pitch and shattered the looking glass into an hundred refrains of a song of myself. Piece by piece I picked them up and began assembling what was to become a newer, better me. “This is gonna be good,” I kept telling myself--and the many replications of moving mouthparts only served to make it more convincing.
Without having stable color cues to rely on as in most puzzles, this one proved especially taxing. Though my life started to resemble a disco ball, it was unmistakably flat and lacked a certain élan vital. I attempted a few creative rearrangements, but to no avail; I knew the cubist epoch had long since ended. I threw me in the trash about noon and went for a walk.
You went to empty the bin and peered inside. It was now your life in there as opposed to mine. You never before considered your fragility. You began construction with some of the larger shards--your education, your marriage, your standing with the firm. “How did it get this way?” you ask—but you are unable to understand the answer as all of you answer at once.
I returned to find you, tweezers in hand, inserting the splinters. Your incoherence concerned me, and I suggested a brisk walk might do you some good. You nodded solemnly and headed for the door. I looked down and pondered. Clearly, it was more than a walk we needed. I hurried to the door and looked out, but you were nowhere to be seen.
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