It would be a fiction piece about a man’s reflection. Reflections always do what we expect of them. They arrive in our mirrors and various other shiny objects to help us judge, arrange, admire, or remove smudges from ourselves. But what do they do in their spare time? Do they have aspirations of their own? And what would a reflection do if it discovered it’s own life expectancy? If we were to know the date and time of our death we would live freely, or so every cliche movie and book would tell us. But a reflection has very special and specific demands on it. How would it spend it’s final days?