When I saw the image of my mother, the way she looked, the way she looked at me, I couldn't

help but notice that she looked

almost like her mother. Even though she was a little younger than me, I couldn't help but recognize that she was very young, very

attractive, very much a young woman, because I'd never been able to have my eyes trained on her, but I just felt a little
uncomfortable. I never would have imagined my mother in that clothes, that she was a beautiful, very beautiful girl, and I just

thought about looking at her. Of course I always imagined that this was a wonderful thing—but of course, it would never have
occurred to me that she was something that people looked at. Then I realized I was looking at myself in that strange way—one i've

always considered to be the most beautiful person ever, that I was completely immersed in that experience. My mother would
always be as beautiful as I was—a beautiful, beautiful person, and I always thought that she was someone