At the circus there's a tent with an oval mirror that opens as a doorway. You walk inside and the stale years penetrate your senses. Down the hallway, a glimmering invites you through a cavern of reflections, a labyrinth of divergences, an ocean of possibilities. Each step you take causes new branches to grow on the tree of your soul, which extend their tips down other hallways gilded by more reflections. You can see them blasting away through time, in every direction, down eternal corridors of mirrors that reflect each step you've already taken, and each step you might take in the future. Only the present is what keeps you oriented. None of them can ever reflect it, for the light is constantly bouncing through the medium of your ever-inflating soul. It seems like you could step through each thin plate of glass and enter all those lives you haven't lived yet, if only the glass would let you; if only those portals to higher dimensions weren't an illusion; if only those walls of time could envelope you into the strangeness of impermanence, derailed and senseless, kicking and screaming through eons of smoke, flailing out of the mold and into the primordial kiln.
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