Am I already singing? Is that my voice or hers? My image in the mirror looks the same, pleasantly unglamorous, growing slowly older. Except that now there is gold dust on my lips. I smile. I can’t help it.
I have to let go. When I send the mental message to my fingers, they do not move. I shout at them. Let go! Let go! My hands are shackles, clinging to the rail, as cold and rigid as frozen meat. Do I have to cut them off? Is that where I am?