It is uncanny how many of these posts are tapped out on Sunday mornings, especially following a hiatus. It is Sunday morning on Harris Creek and I am in my sixty-fifth year, an "old man." Just as when I discovered myself as a bouncing baby boy, and then saw myself as a "young man", I cannot fix any specific time or place of this becoming old. There are gaps which memory cannot traverse. These identities are stacked in layers and only the top layer is exposed to the light of day. The baby boy and the young man lie buried in memory. "It's not dark yet, but it's getting there."

Each stage of myself buries an earlier stage, until the last stage. The final stage is the completion of the process; identification ceases. The process is the process of finding and losing myself. "I was found, but now I'm lost." The old man in the mirror is a loser; he losing the very idea of himself. What and where is the lost and found?