My hand approached the faucet; I don't feel it, but I see that my hand turns the tap and the water flows. I don't hear it, even though I know I should be able to hear the splashing, but I see it. And when I stand here in the bathroom at the sink, there's the mirror, and in the mirror, I can look back at myself. Face in the mirror. Pale, disheveled. Dark trenches, wrinkles. Without a doubt, my face, so familiar: and yet there is something uncertain, as if it were not my face at all, because I search in vain, I don't see the eyes, only the wrinkles and furrows, the shapes of the face distort, but I cannot find the searching eyes...