When strange light stirs the mirror, forces swirl the shadows by the bathtub and I glimpse a figure standing glowing. As I rinse the toothpaste down the drain, his blind eye whirls numinous white, his hair is moonlight streaming. I know neurologists have shown the course of dreaming as synaptic lines of force, and even in this dream I know I'm dreaming, yet when the light refracts at such an angle it shows his broken face, frost in his beard, his black lips mouthing words I only hear as moaning of an operatic angel. His ice hand reaches out. I flinch in fear. The mirror breaks. I gasp awake. He's here.