Brian is just sitting there, tapping his pen. He says nothing, but this look is one I have grown to learn. I know without words that he wants an explanation. And I have none that he can accept.

I don't bother to explain I couldn't recognize him. It isn't something I like to talk about, this faking it in this sight-dependant dimension. I long for the quiet certitude of my old simpler dimension. And yet, even if I were there I would miss the stunning revelations of my new sight, the soft turn of a sleeve, the changing reflections of sun on a window, the changing patterns on a face like the sun and sky. And yet, even here I never have enough data. I cannot find out how people really are behind their painted, moving masks.