Automatically awesome to see reflection of me, I find wonderings pondering if our dreamt clones would still have autosomal curiosity.

Perhaps, I am their imagined imago, connected but unmanaged from their sweaty swevens.

If I limbo, do they somersault? If I am captious, are they captivating? Are we opposites or are we the same—on a different plane?

I hope that we might be familiar even if perspective suggests another case.

But, when rorty scenes fluster my head, I envy the silent milieu behind your tread.

Could I be singular or twinned or plural or just too much? The senses and feelings are labelled real if not insane.

Yet, here is my self standing on my mirror, which was born of sun and rain, contemplating if I am the blur in echo’s brain. ; )