Dead Center.

The weathered oak door creaked and squeaked each time the hinge's were bent, from years of oil-neglect. The door knob had scrapes and scratches and dings and gouges, yet a familiar yellow tinted glow resonated and seem to bounce off every surface able to reflect light. In the middle of this dank, dreary room hung a Victorian era mirror and cabinet, layers of dust filled every crevice and hugged every cranny. The mirror was not unlike most, as it could cast the most beautiful reflections, yet also cast the saddest reflections, painting pictures of lost innocence, wasted youth and unwanted maturity. In the truest sense of speaking, art imitating life.

February 13, 2006