Okay, toss the dishwasher into the gorse bushes and pitch the washing machine into the bog. Break the string on your favourite set of beads and cast them into the wind, watch them as they blow north, a scattering of purples and jades, a burnished silver, dancing into the distance. Take the silver coffee pot from the old pine dresser, the one that your mother polished with love and care and discipline. The one that is now stained with age, the silver brown and black along the edges, take it out and throw it too, out with the rest. Throw out the old plates and the china and the coveted but meaningless blue bowls and the morrocan rug and the art deco butterfly that hugs the dining room wall. Consider the prints a friend brought you back from India, the ones so lovingly framed and hung, one in the hall and one in the bedroom. What are they? Throw them out too. Throw out all the empty words, especially the ones that hang about in the shadows, the ones that lurk in the closets and the dark hallway. There, look up, there is hate, written in capital letters and underneath the tentative cobweb beneath the stairs, sits regret. It hangs in a disconsolate way, weeping and dripping down the wall. Out with the word anger too, it explodes in underneath the mantle, hidden, tucked away, it waits for an opportunity, waits for its time, its creeping stealthy path trying to steal its sneaky way into the room. Out with everything. Words, belongings. Then stand in front of the mirror and peel off the layers. There is nothing left but purity. Stand and look. Keep looking into the glass. It reveals more than the surface. Keep looking. Out of the mirror the truth will come. The glass shiny and promising. Reflections. Wipe it clean. And begin all over again.