There is a man with hint of bags under his eyes. His bushy eye brows under the broad greasy forehead of his oblong skull are charcoal black. It must be hard for an artist to sketch every detail of his eyes only by looking at a photograph of his. His slightly sunken eyes always keep lights away. When facing the sun, one man could see the irides are heterochromias. One is like a copper nickel coin bleached in vinegar and the other one is darker than his skin. Stubble below and above his dry lips. He examines his face, brushes some thin strands which stand higher than other sparse remaining hair like damaged springs coming out of an old bed. He turns his neck a little to left and right to let light paint a clearer image of the slightly coarse skin of his cheeks. Two tiny moles at the right side. He pinches a small pimple at his temple, presses the blood and pus smeared fingertip against the dusty mirror, touching his image - touching me. Time moves on oh so swift. It has been twenty five years since this very day. Growing old is a must.
