There is a flaw in our thinking process because we believe that glass is fragile. It shatters and lacerates the reflection, the images we hide from, and the reality of the prevalent world. The weather if filtered to give those eyes a false dream, or a changing canvas that represses the feelings and voices. None can gauge the health of glass, and its transformation to a mirror is quite unsettling, most of the times. An entirely incomprehensible world conspires in those reflections, the cross-reflections, and uncanny references from the souls we fail to hear. Someone out there is lording over the alternative reality, which becomes an essential parallel to which both sides of an inconclusive divide cannot seem to reconcile. A persistent conflict with your own reflection, the myriad of reflections from a concocted dream creates a disturbing phantasmagoria. It feels, as if a different world, with a cult of implausible rituals, experience contradictions of unimaginable consciousness. Nothing feels real; the images of glass shattering and penetrating reality is indescribable. The malady of mistrusting even one’s own reflection gives a rude shock to the inner conflicts. Floating eyes cannot vision a stable existence, and dreams become wilder and distressing. It is calamitous to have thought of designing an object of such fragility and be impaled by it.