I go to work. My periphery scans south for the glowy orbs of bus lights. Here comes the bus. I get on and show the driver my pass. He doesn't seem to notice, so I sit at the back and examine his reflection in the rear viewer.
Images held in mirrors are truer because they hold no supposings.
They are objective and concrete. I shrink lower and lower into my shawl, nibbling on the bulbs of coloured wax. The more I stare at Mr. Driver, the worrieder I get. I also see that he is losing some chunks from the appendage which look like bristle-fuzzed blue caterpillars. And they are creepy crawling all over his bulging uniform.