A whisper lingers, trapped in the curve of an illusionary aisle.
Mirrors reflect what they choose, not what exists beyond the surface.
This log serves to track the whispers; echoes of self carried on the wind.
Consider the appearance of a shadow, longer under noon's gaze.
To understand the shadow is to embrace the light it evades.
What does it mean to face oneself in fragmented vistas?
A funhouse mirror is an uncelebrated artist, capturing flaws as masterpieces.
In the far corner, a panel offers solace, its knobs polished by countless hands.
One might call it destiny, another fate; here lies neither explanation.