The mirror fails to uncover matter's truth: light is affliction a fiction sweet or sour diction prepared to lie to whichever eye sits before another faulty organ. Low sounds course through the river ritual: we die after we spawn, it makes parenting easier. Don't call it a cynic, it's an iron cycle: the magnet's magenta flushes files back to a future no one deserves. Snap, shot, it's shotgun season, dears are wishing letters were the kind of ammunition that lives through a barrel. Sontag wouldn't approve: gun analogies are a cancer. It's a dour society that sees itself out the window smashing windows and draws the blinds.