My hair was falling down in big clumps, mostly from the right side of my head. No, the left side of my head, only the right as I looked in the mirror. It was strange and ominous, I would pass my hand to comb my hair in the old man's tradition of trying to cover the bald bits, but my hair -black and shiny, far more so than it is in 'real life'- would come off in my hands. Big clumps of it. Outside, a world of doom and grey awaited. I leaned on the washbasin towards the mirror, I was so, so very tired and I knew this wasn't real, it couldn't be. I touch a bit of what was left of my hair on that half of my head and another, almost final clump of black lustrous hair came off in my hand. But my skin was looking healthy and my wrinkles and lines had disappeared. I felt very ill: the world was going wrong very quickly, as I looked at that image in the mirror that was me and yet wasn't, that younger and healthier but at the same time fatally wounded self, mortally ill me. I needed to put my head down and sleep, even if I knew that what was left of my hair would be left in the pillow.

Outside, in the distance, explosions and police sirens criss-crossed the city in stereo Doppler effect.. there was smell of something like gun-powder in the air, but the window gave me only a calm urban night vista. I knew, though, that he world was about to end.