The mirror, often praised for its flicker of honesty, sheds injustice in solitude. It harbors colorless mutterings of the substrate—a truth wrapped in guilt, muddling its noble reflections with unwritten odysseys of discretion.

Plated beneath appearances, the polished crystallines of abandoned mirage distort purpose into rough whispers. "Wipe me clean," commands the ceiling vent, ridiculing its unnoticed sanguine sins when obligations of air purity betray their utility.
"Dare to divine," quips the velvet chair, unraveling secrets woven into threadbare guise.

Every inscription, relic unseen undermined wares, speaks with practiced irony and cynicism stalest in their elongated vibratos. When moving is sin, stillness marrow deep becomes acknowledgement of dynamic backgrounds torn.