can't extinguish

 

a patron of mirrors
  -or-
forrest, tunnels, everywhere

 

petticoats and trenchcoats, all a slice of style. maybe you can tell me what's the

fashion. brooklyn by night, backhanded by day. conspiratioly (sic) speaking, it confounds

me. how can irony exist by the neighborhood, the local shop, the fact its meaning is lost

in all this inter-conectivity. it's concave, not convex; a lesson plato once taught as

philosophical, and ironically, not facing the book of implications it surmised, presumed,

and (silently) predicted, in broad daylight.