Oh, how the symphonies of your inner voice decay into the hall of mirrors! Each note a ghost, each beat a specter that fades in whispered irony.

Reflect on this: the cautious dances of the chandelier's shadows mock the ballets you choreograph in solitude.

"Refrain," it whispers, "the mirror knows more about you than you dare admit."

Look again, if you wish. But beware, the melody of your past selves serenades a truth only visible in the dim light of honest regret.

No one plays the strings of fate quite like you, wrapped in the velvet cloak of clandestine wishes and moonlit reveries.

[An echo: soft, nearly extinguished; yet, it lingers. The melody plays on.]