You look nice. How exhilarating and terrifying to be looked at, to be seen – to realize you’ve been an image this whole time. All that patient primping, that painstaking preparation, suddenly confronted with its own potential: This is me! you say, aspirationally tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, I’m trying to look like me! You turn to face the audience, and in that state of perpetual becoming, you wonder: Will my outside ever meet my inside? Will I see it when it does?