I noticed a new mole today. Well, who's to say if it is new, honestly. The noticing is new, but it feels no different than noticing a restaurant you drive past every week. Except a mole doesn't have time markers in the construction of it, nothing to show the wear of foot traffic. No strobing light behind a sign that lets you know it's been running for years. No grime laid on in imperceptibly thin sheets, not amounting to anything at first but then all at once appearing so thick you can cut a wake through it with a drawn finger. It's just there, and maybe it always was, although that can't be true because I probably wasn't born with it, so it definitely appeared sometime in the interim, but the interim is all the time I know, so it feels like forever.
Moles form like clouds, out of nothing and then, there. And it's shaped like a cloud, which is worrisome — at least I've been told that. Good moles have clean edges like a bush manicured with one of those trimmers that looks like an inside out chainsaw. Bad moles have the indecipherable edges of a Rorschach test without the symmetry of a Rorschach test. That's what mine looks like. A cloud in the shape of nothing. A cloud in the shape of a potentially cancerous mole.