The moon is shining, full and bright, trapped in the frame of the window, light spilling on the bare stairs. Black wood around the mirror’s reflective surface, hidden in the darkness of night, nailed to the wall. The reflected silhouettes of bookshelves can be seen through the mirror. It’s almost as if you could reach through the reflection and pick a nameless book and leaf though the black pages. Illusions, to reach towards the mirror, fingers outstretched and expectant would touch the cold surface of glass, leaving greasy fingerprints. Clouds enter the canvas of infinite black sky, making the moon disappear. You realize that in reaching towards the mirror you are really reaching for yourself, to know that you are real, not just a black mass amongst the black shapes behind you.