We didn’t have anything left and there wasn’t anything left to have. All that remained in the mirror was an image of endless methods of evaluation. When people looked outside, the moon they saw was essentially a rabbit made of tinfoil. Someone I knew had a story, but it was really just a description of someone having had a story, once, long ago. No one remembers why rings are worn on fingers, or how we got these languages. In the night, they shiver with secret desire, alone, to themselves, in the darkness. But they cannot remember. Yet.