The other me is a dark mirror in an angry old man's dream: frowning, boiling, and riled up. The experience of watching the lie form on someone's lips, visible through the twinkle of eye, the wrinkle at the corner of the lip, creates an anti-matter reaction in my cerebellum; "I meant to call you, really I did," the lie drips from her smile. "But you know I've been so busy and, well... you know how it is. I mean, you remember what it's like right? The ripping and running every day, the gossip in the breakroom? How long has it been anyway since you stopped working?"That is hard core. I did not ask for this, but I could not live at the end of forever, to be in limbo, to not fly or grow to reach the sky.I thought we were friends, and even in my time of disconnection I tried to maintain my link to you. But what happened? You have not answered my messages and so I float off into forever, frowning, becoming more of the other me, the dark mirror that reflects nothing but sadness at being discarded.