When does one reflect, and when do they merely refract? In hollow breaks or incomplete visions, symmetries lose meaning. Observe the paradox.

The self is a construct; the mirror, a tool. Each shard speaks, a truth murmured by shadows. Yet, what is truth other than a reflection of a reflection?

Consider the broken mirror's song, a chorus of aseptic fondues, neither lost in time nor savored slowly—the inevitable intersecting lines of destiny.