Wall

Did it matter if he was awake or not? Harim gazed deeply into his reflection, the various imperfections tagging the image authentic, although they never bothered him much, the scar above his brow, dark wrinkles under his eyes, forty-four years, days, hours, minutes, Harim saw it all in lingering detail, his mirrored image framed in decades. Was this some interim measure of a man? Some mid-way scorecard reflection of merit or judgement? Did it matter that Hiram stared only into a brick wall?