There they stand early in the morning. The mirror is in front, and their reflection now appear. He's dishevel and a bit unkempt, and the bags under his eyes show a lack of sleep. There's redness within them, and the weary lines are many and growing upon his brow. Her face is blank with no makeup, and the dryness of her skin forges her a much older specimen than she really is. Her hair is awry, and the crusty taste in her mouth begs for a rinse. The wretchedness of the early morning rise is upon them again, and the venues of the week demand alteration. The paths of encounters petitions cleansing, and lest one be known in all his or her actual glory, let the cleansing begin.
A little scrub here, a little shave there, a tiny push here and a bigger shove there, a small amount of this, and a bigger amount of that, and bit by bit the carcass comes alive. Painting here, brushing there, some d-o for the b-o, rinsing, swallowing, plucking, and tucking, and the once not so ready becomes the fashion king or queen of the week. Look out world, the ,wretched is looking good!
And yet, underneath, the wretched lies and lurks until another evening and another day when his or her appearance shall surely return.
Until tomorrow...Why Say More?
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