One day, you'll wake up, and I’ll be gone.
It might take a while for you to notice.
A week.
A month.
A year, even.
But you'll notice, eventually, and by then, all that will be left might be the expression on your face as you wonder what happened. As you discover that you're screaming at the walls.
And you'll come looking for me in all of the same old places, and you won't find anything.
No clues, no nothing.
Because I will have sold it all. Given it all away. Thrown it in the trash. Taken a little bit of it with me.
Then it won't matter so much, anymore, these debates as to sincerity, and truth. Collections. Trophies. Inner-wisdom; wrongdoings gone unpunished. What you feel that you've got to prove.
What you feel that I’ve got left to prove to you.

There just won't be anything left of me by then. No, nothing much at all.

Taped To A Mirror

They say that if you break a mirror, you'll have seven years of bad luck.