If the one photograph that caught him in an unusual shadow, turned largely to the left, shot from above, on a meteorologically freakish day, when sun specks dotted each living thing with a special tag, readable not by eye, but by intuition, if that were the only photograph of him that survived, James “Ugly Jim” Breevy would now or at some point in the future be known as the handsomest man who ever lived, his name presumed ironic (how could it be otherwise?) by history. As the evidence of my true existence continues to vanish from the planet, I see myself more and more as Ugly Jim.

Were Jim discovered in a block of ice after history had already venerated his allure, his ugliness would, of course, be rationalized, and he would be considered beautiful when returned to the living, as he had never been in the cold, true light of his original day. When I come back, I want them to love me for me, not for a misinterpretation of fragments.

Damn vanished phone.

No one will know how ugly I am.


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