Blank Imprint

This is one of those relatively rare mornings when I am at a loss for thought. Ideas and images drift through my mind; they are not driven by consciousness. That is, I do not create them; nor do I actively observe them. I barely notice them, as if they belong to strangers with whom I have no more than coincidental connections. Or no connections at all. Any connection I may have with them, though, is stronger than the brittle ties I might have with myself. If I were to look into a mirror, I would see no reflection; only a vast, uncharted emptiness. Nothing sinister—just a placeholder for something ill-defined and innocuous.