Some say I knew him in a past life. Or killed him in a past life.
Spooky. And, you should all know, highly unlikely. And stupid.
I draw a face. It’s the same face, basically. When I draw, I immediately start scribbling erratically, beginning with sharp eyes with large circled pupils, arcing into a pronouncedly long nose, rounding off the nostril, digging into an upper lip, and curling a two long S shapes around the features to join at a circular chin. I attach rectangular ears, and then tear into the eyes, scribbling and scratching and lining them until the pen has torn through paper and the nose has swollen from the surgical ambush. The cheeks darken. The lips widen. The forehead often remains blank.
It’s become so routine I hardly draw anything else. I didn’t even realize it was a man. To me, it is a nameless, shapeless, Face. It is nothing. It is geometric and lined and curled and marked up like pavement. It is absent. It is empty. It is ink and paper and the fine drawn lines of a razor thin Bic.