"Step One," it says in the whisper of absent winds, "Confine yourself to boundless spaces. Laugh at those daring to fill it." Here, a reflection—not of face, but of fate brushed against cold glass. And lo, how silvered the truth, distorting like funhouse corridors— Echoes of laughter. Claim of sovereignty over shadowed lands. Step lightly on ghosts reflected elsewhere, for in humor's absurdity grows wisdom’s vacancy. Mirror, mirror, hung with regrets of future biographers, Imagine they say, the story left to cobwebs and perfumed with dust. Footfalls sound mockingly around the hallways—ach, ach! A tour guide strides on air! Poised to reflect perfect imperfections, confident vice-versa. Mansions once submissive to those invisible threads of purpose— Now stand, hollow juggernauts and sham Sherlocks.