I keep thinking about what a reflection actually is. Not a copy. Something stranger than that. A threshold, maybe. A version of the world that exists only because light agreed to bend a certain way, at a certain moment, for no one in particular. What you see in a reflection is real, and it isn't. The same street, the same face, the same sky… but filtered through matter, shifted by angle, altered by light. There's always a slippage between the original and its echo. I find that slippage more interesting than either one alone. In cities, where the intimate and the collective brush against each other constantly, reflections offer something rare. A way to observe without intruding. To be inside and outside at once. To witness without confronting. Glass, water, steel… they don't just reflect. They mediate. They let you look without claiming what you see. Maybe that's the deeper thing. To look through a reflection is to accept that reality was never singular. Every perception is mediated, by material, by light, by where you happen to be standing. What you see is never entirely faithful. Never entirely yours. But inside that uncertainty, something true lives. Not one truth. A complex one. Open. Made of many angles, many versions, never fully resolved. I think I prefer it that way.