No imitation is perfect, no duplicate so sublime as to be inclined to believe that one better cannot be conceived. So through this perception, in attempt of perfection, is there chance that my mirror, my private mirror, might try to better reflection for glance? No, it could not be that my belonging betrays me for without consciousness to reflect what is seen, who would know if and how it was pristine and gaud over its accomplishment with the highest self-esteem. As if a brush ponders its mistakes, with a handle worn down and a body misshaped, a laugh, but still, there is my misshaped face which, appeared to me, at a quarter past three, did seemingly hold less tragedy. On thought, where is my brush which I so carefully laid upon my mirror's base when I was in such haste? Could it be that much like me it was replaced and now remains unseen? The monotony of days tampered so I would not have it, nor would I know, for subtle change leaves minds erased. My brush, my brush, is it misplaced? And oh my face when as a lad I was so proud of which I had, but now weighs down in resounding disgrace. What of it? Is it misplaced? To place the burden of introspection upon another gives intercession away from hands with soft embrace and leads my soul without a trace. I curse the mirror, that it is you, who ruined me when I was new, so might I find horror erased if I cast you upon your face and then, and then maybe you see the torment wrought inside of me from lack of knowing solemn space. Thus lifting up the mirror's base, reflection of reflecting seen, with my own self being the mean, then infinity and I am lost. Tis you, Tis you my albatross and though you remain slight out of sight, as light cannot travel limitless bounds, I know you lie in wait one day, one day I fear you shall be found. The mirror rustled, as if a quake, then giving me one last keepsake, starred away with blank adieu, leaving me punished with shattered hue. The frame through which I view is tarnished, leaving a distorted image in its wake and wake I do, to find each day the image more askew. But look! Is it not the brush whose fate I feared the same? It must have been knocked behind the door in my haste. Am I to blame? Yes, imagination is at fault, and with my suspicions grinding to a halt, I realize humans are quite the curious race. How much longer till I come home? Alone, alone. I truly miss my face.
*Kind of hard to follow. It is about a mirror that achieves sentience, only to manifest itself as the man who looks into it everyday, to help deal with its new reality.
