In the realm whispered by shadows, mirrors reflect not our visage, but a dance of the celestial mist that vibrates beneath the fabric of time. This spectral imagery does not cede to the waking day, but holds its own stillness within the moon's eternal gaze.
As artifacts of forgotten lore whisper angular secrets, the mirrors serve as portals—a dance of reflections entwined with the arcane. Scientists and mystics ponder, 'What truths reside within?'. Only silken whispers answer, drifting through the lattice unfolding therein.
Spectators report visions—part celestial, part ghostly unabashed in their mingling with earthly priors. Do they ask for recognition within our slow decline across time and space? Or simply weave within our oblivion, as we stand simultaneity divergent in these speaking glass menageries?