There will come a time when life will be apprehended purely as an accumulation of the senses, a coalescence of matter and the names of colors, learned when young and impressionable.
The colors on the rug. Orange, green, red and again orange.
I watch in the mirror as my hands move. Seemingly of my own accord.
I watch in amazement at the familarity of my own form. As I seem to be perched somewhere on the edges of the world.
The mirror slants.
I may fall off.