That cloudy mirror falls in the face of the beholder. Shying away from the depths of vision, only that part of the face whose beauty conceals all that is unattractive is exposed. The sight of ageing, rolled in the happiness that has been pushed forward, shames the dirt that clings to it. That disgust, whose shame inflicted on the self, boasts the raised hand of the outside defence. Sighted in the sparkling foreign image the naked splintering shows, whose concealed is illuminated in the eternal. Every made thing springs from an after, whose correspondence is the solving image of liberation in the apparent. Fortune's blacksmith is a stranger to the truth.
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