For years now, I have challenged my shadow to so many fights, have faced it straight, raised my meaty fists to its shrugging frame. It never fights back. Just months ago I recognized it as a copy, though I assumed it was a simulacrum, and even now I don’t recognize myself as its master.

For thirty dollars, a so-young woman lays her hands on my scalp, feels for its pulse and my fortune. She says if she dyes my hair the way I want, my head will look like it’s on fire. Good. Maybe then I can shed some light on my shadow, or seduce it like it’s a moth. Maybe then the brush will clear.

My frantically shaking voice so often sounds stentorian until it makes itself known. Between speech and recognition, it remembers itself as the diminished seventh, terrified to speak its name for fear of calling up the devil. But already such momentum’s been gained that only the screech of a stutter can draw that wilting voice to a halt. So many sentences now die on the vine. So many muscles have worn out from always anticipating combat.

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