All her house is mirrors, a sort of numb
paranoia that she might forget her raison d’etre.
Her world is a kaleidoscope of identical reflections, a
Rorschach’s test of faces she can’t decipher. You
only know her through lenses and fog, can’t
divine her true nature—consider yourself lucky. Cognoscenti
imbue her with perfection but she is merely waterproof,
tear-resistant. At her table apples are always on the menu.
Eat the skin, the flesh, the seeds. Sip the juice, drink your fill.
Certain of Eventual Failure 