As I was reading at the dining table, I felt some bumps on my forehead when I supported my head with my hand. I went to the bathroom by the front door of my house and looked into the mirror. My forehead looked all right, but my face surprised me. I recognized myself at once, but it still was not me. It was not me as I remember myself, that is. And so I went to my study upstairs, where there are many packages of several postcards made in England before my move to Croatia. Two of them bear my photographs, and I brought them downstairs for closer inspection. The first was taken in 1970, when I was twenty-four, and the second in 2001, when I was fifty-five. The first photograph shows me exactly as I remember myself. I am much older in the second one, but I still look more like I remember myself than the way I actually look in the mirror right now. In other words, the older I get, the less I look like I remember myself. If yet another postcard were made with a photograph of me taken this year, and if I looked at it several years from now, I would look in it more like me I remember than the face I would see in the mirror that year. I also remember thinking this way in 2001, when I saw the second postcard for the first time. I could recognize myself all right, but it was not me as I remembered myself, either. Thus I feel lucky to have the two postcards near me, for there is a real danger that I will eventually fail to recognize myself in the mirror. Seeing the face in it, I would turn around to see who was behind me.