They say every reflection holds a fragment of the one's soul, an ethereal piece caught in the mirrored cage.
What truths murmur behind these crafted surfaces? I ask the reflective void, expecting silence.
In the gleam of glass masked as truth, shadows dance—insidious dissonance weaving between layers.
Memories not our own echo in the stillness, punctuating with ghostly presence.
Whispers rise within the surface like steam in kaleidoscopes of shattered notions.
Oh to tread thin veils of reasoning, to unweave the woven about our ceaseless continuity.
Surrendered to reflections, one seeks absolution. Do the murmurs consent?
Catch the flicker of truth in the reflection's eye.