I think of those young women who write to me, wearing my face on their chests, who don’t know anything about me really, but seem eager to take my place. I think about that vacant look in their eyes and I remember the young woman I used to be. We are all of us trapped inside a hall of mirrors, our shiny, hard exteriors reflecting both to each other and on each other, ad infinitum, forever and ever so we can’t escape.
