Mirror, mirror... in an endless sea of questions without anchor, what shadows play upon your glassy stage, beneath the uneven whispers of twilight?
The reflection unravels stories untold, stitched from whispers and glances, woven through the needle of time. Each thread a strand of being, each stitch a moment lost in the folds of reality.
Perception, a labyrinth of shards... wandering through alleys of thought, with doors that open to yourself, split in duality.
Beneath the silent resonance lies the question: Is the reflection authentic, or merely a specter of who we want to be?
To ponder—to introspect—is to shatter the illusion, one prism at a time.
Behind every reflection, a universe is trapped, yearning to break free, just as words are to the tongue, just as thoughts are to the mind.
Selectively mindful, or chaotically whimsical?