When the shards of silvered glass settle on the ground at our feet, our trained response to the stimulus is to examine our image in them. The plurality of polyhedrons share a similar propensity for reflection but we're too transparent and it's apparent that our apparitions have been cultivated from something insubstantial. There's the clothes but like all postmodern emperors we're most comfortable shielded by lies from inquiring eyes; our naked intentions an exposé on the excellent job we've done industrializing individuality. So no, they may reflect ideas but they don't return any light, they're black holes as far as the enquiring eyes seeking in the mirror are concerned.
Our nakedness is no nearer to illuminating, being neither natural nor our own (and nevermore, if once it was). Our natures described with a paucity that pales us to transparencies; somehow the overlays seem to create the illusion of substance, like glass viewed from its greenish edges or the blue ocean tha