In the hall of forgotten lights, there exists a mirror; no glass, just emptiness veiled. Reflect not, see it inversely.

"You could be anyone," it whispers temptingly yet tastelessly, "if you replaced emotions with those carried fines only by clouds."

The bravest clowns tremble behind varnished smiles, daring Faustian tangos their equilibrium serenely chaotic.

Lights whisper stories hoarded in cumulative silences, echoing jests masked in wisdom feverish.

"Oh, what dazzle you project, dear void!" A eulogy to substance perpetually coinciding with vagueness—our amorous bedtime story.

Lost verses cling to visible seams; spirits are weaving gentle sarcasm into your matinal beverages, stirred with polished irony.