By Jon Nania, photograph by Adeline Sides, December 4, 2007
Norman woke to find that he had lost his body - the strong, young one. In its place stood a frail effigy of what once had been the unassailable form of his youth. In his bathroom mirror, he examined the reflected spectacle of time’s abashing hand - small old man, emaciated with moon-white hair growing just above raccoon eyes; deep-set canyon eyes dappled with browns and greens. He faltered back slightly, let every slack muscle run taut over bone, and slid down the grimy, firefly-yellow wall to the floor. Redemption was found in the cool tiles that shored up his body as it curled infantile. Norman whispered, his lips touching the floor in a pool of spittle, slowly: "I am young. I am good."
