I pass by a mirror. The greying beard and hair and stained teeth seem to seem too distant. It is as if I am supposed to know this man though I cannot register why.
This feels like an Aldous Huxley book coming to life. But I go on, gathering more onlookers. I look down to see bodily parts I don't believe are on my body. There is no life, no colour. I walk on.
The police come and stop me and someone asks me my name. I do not answer. They look for identification of some sort. There are none. My torn pants are another road and I am far away from home. Do I have a home? What is a home?
You've probably seen me before and wished you had unseen me. I'm the naked old man who lost his way. My mind has a mind of its own. And nobody's trying to fix me.