It's been too long since I wrote to you. The days wash by, and on Tuesdays I go to the supermarket. Last night, lying in bed, I watched my reflection in the mirrored closet doors. Of course, it was too dark to make anything out, and as a result I could see the most improbable things. I did not want to close my eyes. I have been trying to cultivate a fear of mirrors, emulating (as usual) some literary hero, but so far have managed only a deliberate fascination. Evidence suggests that my reflection changes when I sleep -- in the morning, the remnants linger, like a static charge, and the dust has rearranged itself into incomplete shapes. I have grown three heads, or I have risen up through the ceiling. It's hard to tell for sure. Instead of scaring me, I find these realisations exhilerating. Perhaps, if I could only sleep long enough, my double could manage a complete escape, and warn the others of my captivity.