A white flash bursts in a dimly lit room. In the mirror stands a figure looking right back at itself. With every burst of the shutter a new pose is imprinted into the stained glass. The mirror has vertical streaks, revealing a pattern of drying that was anything but circular- anything but proper. A thin layer of muscle covers two sickly developed arms which look like the shadow of two shoe strings hanging from a bamboo tree against the wall. A scented candle flickers in an accented glass jar. Each time the flame dances, the man's imprint in the wall takes on a different position- as if he were a trance dancer making love to a strobe light. A vanilla mist rises above the flame, gently kissing a damp blue bath towell drying in a messy pile on top of the toilet.

Each time the flash fires out of the digital camera, the man throws out a different facial expression. Each time he becomes more serious. Each time his cheeks become more tactical. Each time he brings a Hollywood esque terror to life- so realistic he secretly commends himself for not running over to the bathtub and curling into a frightened ball of tears. He is becoming the character looking back at him in the clouded glass.

The flashes continue into the night. One after another, until after an unusual yoga like pose he is satisfied. He reaches for the light switch, struggling with his paper thin fingers to exert the force required to flip it up. The light errupts into the room, forcing him to squint and turn away despite the black polarized sunglasses he has on. The ones he wore the entire time. When he finally adjusts he spins infront of the mirror and runs both hands through his slicked back hair. One hand at a time he admires the precision spent in maintaining his hairstyle. He is content. His new myspace picture has been captured. His new identity will soon be on display for the entire world to see! The mere thought gave him goosebumps.

A half-eaten tuna sandwhich sits on the counter. He raises it quick, forcing a few chunks of tuna out and onto the floor. A few seconds after one enormously aggressive bite he spits his oral load all over the mirror. The sandwhich had been siting next to the candle the entire time, absorbing enough vanilla it made the sandwhich taste like french vanilla tuna ice cream.

While he washed his hands and mouth his attention turned to his right bi-cep. He smiled as he traced his team xo tattoo all around his pencil thick arm. It was a lick-and-stick. He thought about rubing it off completely and re-adding one of the 500 or so team xo tattoos he kept in his desk drawer but it was late, and plus he hadn't even checked his runnerspace account in several hours. Someone could have added him as a friend or wrote on his guestbook. A man must always be in control of his web-destiny he thought to himself as he turned and ran to his laptop.

There was clutter everywhere. Clothes covered the stovetop, empty Nike boxes were stacked against the wall, spent powerGEl packets strayed off into various corners and popcorn crumbs were flattened into the carpet. A Harry Potter poster hung over the flatscreen. He had a commerative broom, framed in a glass case beneath. There was a hint of sci-fi in everything, including the boxes of cereal on the center table which had filled out star wars contest entry forms waiting to be cut out and mailed.

On the mantle several pictures were carefully placed in an orderly fashion. All of the photos had him and one other face. The frames were hand-made and decorated with team xo logos and painted blue and black. In the back, covered with dust was a small frame with a new person embedded within. It was the same guy and a woman. The photo was from their wedding. That was obvious. This photo seemed to be set aside for a reason.

One hour on runnerspace turned to 8 which turned into cracks of sun bleeding through old curtains. The severly weak man arose from a hard nights work, stretched his IT bands and kissed his favorite picture of him and the other man before he retired into his altitude tent for a much needed rest.

His futuristic pajamas had one letter, an F, hand stiched into the helmet of a storm trooper holding an assult rifle. Good night Fabian he said to himself as he drifted into a deep sleep at a simulated elevation of 15,135 feet....