Your reflection lives in no one’s mirror but your own. Remember this the next time you hate someone no one else knows.
1.4.7
One last look he took stepping back, and the distance cleaned him up a little more, glitter caught now dangling in the bevel along the edges of the looking glass as Evelyn’s eyes—and Penny’s—like bubbles from the bottom of the champagne flute, fluttered back to the surface.
1.4.6
He opened Penny’s compact, leaned in and swirled his finger around in the pressed powder, wiped the cover-up over the third eye on his forehead and rubbed it in, hating himself a little bit less, hating himself a little bit more.
I sat on the crate behind the kiosk
and watched the center limp behind the earth, falling like a wildfire. I try to see myself in the mirror of others by binging interviews in other papers. I find the story has always been the same. Superlative idiots persist in mocking others’ stupidity. I had a song on repeat skipping across the walkman of
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1.4.5
The mirror stared back where the glass monster he loathed hung in cool fluorescent light, its fragile eternity suspended in the grooves of the fluted universe.
1.4.4
He stole into a dressing room, ensuring no one watched but the camera, and eyed himself in the mirror, a lanky bastard, drab slacks and skinny woven tie, two pimples on his forehead.
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The shuttle picked me up at the junction where the wires spill out of the center and into the inner rings of the interspace. Camp lights sprinkled through the fog in the distance further down the wire. The main tube sped down through a couple windows around a middle floor of the pink-purple skyscraper. Parallax
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1.4.3
“Good,” she said and smiled like she had the sole power to forgive his every sin, cover over every blemish.