Even if I memorised the deep crease of his eyelid, the little scrape through his eyebrow, the way the bone of his nose veers out slightly more to the right, the mole on the bottom right of his skull, they are only memories of my memories of his skin, his eyelids, his moles – far more a reflection of myself than of him. As time wears on, these images will drift further away from the original. Much like how the first statement in a game of Chinese Whispers is progressively bent out of shape.