In the looking glass, illumined from behind I saw the subordinate patriarch – a patron of vice, a disaffected patriot – and my limbs turned to phantasms.
“There has been discord in my city three ages on,” he said to me tapping his head. “This I know.”
“There is heresy here,” he cupped his ears. His voice scended endlessly through A and D, spiraling, its tone shepherded by the contempt through which he communicated. “This I see.”
“Without coincidence, fraud and treachery share a similar source at the heart of this damned place,” he hissed as his eyes flashed disparate hues. “This I hear.”
“And there is violence!” He struck the glass fracturing it into shards. “This I feel.”
Our hands cried a fiery ooze from our mutual cracks to mingle in the glass’ fractal veins. My looks contorted from the pain and shock, my soul contorted from a new perception granted by the watery lens. Now warped was a sight once seen by young eyes. What was once courtly was now comedic. It had become a trick, a child’s toy, a game for light and dark and a play on now and then. I laughed into the face of the looking glass for it was a joke that had ceased being funny before it had ceased being told. And the grime reality transformed my laugh to a scowl and the comedian in the fractured looking glass transformed my scowl to a jagged beam which offered no support and no relief from the weight of my disillusionment.