Perhaps I am being too eager to see disaster. The faces of dreams are malleable, and the recollection of them even more. How much of last night’s sleep have I just now imagined, seeing this? Perhaps it is all so much coincidence, and my likeness is here plucked out of a crowd, used for no more significant reason than Tarset must have some face and mine will do. Does my fear give the painting familiarity? Or does it spark my denial?