"It's a fun house where the mirrors all reflect what's real / and reality's as twisted as the mirrors reveal / and the fun is finding out what the mirrors show..."
With their voices they soothe and unnerve, an echoing, disjointed harmony rises from the open lips and their smiles. With the glass there, it's hard to see them as they are. Tall? Short? Fat? Thin? The mirrors are everywhere and the secrets they hold are stuck fast.
A high pitched whisper from the left, a smile of deep, glistening red comes from a gap in between. Forward, you step, to follow that grin but your hand lands on cold. It's a mirror afterall.
That nasal voice from behind, the slow tipping of a hat. Beckoning. You spin. There's nothing there but your disfigured reflection.
And from your right a lumbering, heavy voice. The thump of passing footsteps. But still there is only the mirrors and you, twisting and turning. Lost in the place where reality lives, in the guise of plentiful disjointed images.
In this mirrored box you sit, waiting, just waiting to cast your eyes on the usual - on the you that looks back every morning from the one in your bathroom. But all you see is malformed versions of yourself, leering back at you.
The voices sing again;
"and the fun is finding out what the mirrors show..."
With their voices they soothe and unnerve, an echoing, disjointed harmony rises from the open lips and their smiles. With the glass there, it's hard to see them as they are. Tall? Short? Fat? Thin? The mirrors are everywhere and the secrets they hold are stuck fast.
A high pitched whisper from the left, a smile of deep, glistening red comes from a gap in between. Forward, you step, to follow that grin but your hand lands on cold. It's a mirror afterall.
That nasal voice from behind, the slow tipping of a hat. Beckoning. You spin. There's nothing there but your disfigured reflection.
And from your right a lumbering, heavy voice. The thump of passing footsteps. But still there is only the mirrors and you, twisting and turning. Lost in the place where reality lives, in the guise of plentiful disjointed images.
In this mirrored box you sit, waiting, just waiting to cast your eyes on the usual - on the you that looks back every morning from the one in your bathroom. But all you see is malformed versions of yourself, leering back at you.
The voices sing again;
"and the fun is finding out what the mirrors show..."
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