“Breath is wasted in the hushed talk between myself and the mirror; debating what to do with the dreams that came to our door already broken. Fractured like egg shells of a sickly born bird, twisted and grotesque, the dreams writhe around and jabber in the cardboard box. I say, from within the mirror, to throw it out back and be done with the matter. I throw the box in the compactor, and listen to the quiet peeping coming from my pocket.” -Quill