If you've ever seen someone do make up, watched, sitting back, relaxed on the edge of the toilet you just had sex on, watching them reframe their face, and their world, you know what I'm talking about. I wonder how they do it so wonderfully. Make-up the made-up. The ways those worry lines disappear, those minor blemishes, which only I appreciate as beauty, which you blot away in such a hurried fashion, because you hate me, the way everything returns to normal. Distrust. I wonder if I could do that too if I wanted. If that's really how easy it is. A few torture devices (have you SEEN that thing they use to curl their eyebrows?) a nip here, a tuck there, that shadow stuff, and oh yeah, plenty of concealer. That's really the important part. That concealer stuff. I'd probably needs gobs and gobs. But staring into that mirror, I'm not sure that even that could hide my eyes. My eyes look a little too tired, a little too wired, a little too on edge. I've seen too much, whatever that means, and you can't hide knowledge like that. It broadcasts on all the unseen ways, sends the strings vibrating that connect me to you and you and you. Oh I'm sure my freckles would disappear without a scream, my skin would tan, hey, it's only a little cream. My irishness would disappear; but my eyes will still ask the question : how long, how long, how long my dear?