The masquerader in the mirror appears to be a certain stranger to me he slips a film of glow through glow on his hand and paints my features where his face ought to be young flesh, young frame slow pulse, no pain inside my fit on skin sometimes I wonder just where to begin I need action inside my fit on skin I make a novel of everything it's like fiction inside my fit on skin another side of my twin
The face he fits is unmistakably mine without a trace he leaves the scene of the crime the story always reads exactly the same I need my live protection all the time