"In life's twisted pantomime, the mirror speaks only in whispers of regret."
Once upon a digital dusk, the reflections turned their backs. They whispered,
"Here lies the mirror that never lies," but truth had left the building.
Irony, my friend, is a cruel jester. It taps your shoulder, only to reveal that
it's you, standing in the void, with echoes laughing behind those glassy walls.
"A critique, they call it, as the abyss critiques the absent selfie."
So they gaze, wide-eyed and double-chinned, at their other selves, pondering existential
tweets: "Do I see the real me, or just an augmented reflection?" A question for the ages,
indeed.
Mirrors split light into truths and lies, yet here we stand, absorbing the satire of our
own haunted reflections. Is it us, or mere shadows asking your name in the void?