A light breeze stirs the wall of architectural mirrors before me. The movement distorts the reflection a bit, so the lines of the hills and the branches of the swaying trees don’t quite meet up where they should. It’s beautiful. Only a reflection of reality’s fullness, but a work of art. Like me. Or you. Tremors distort a little sometimes. Bits don’t quite meet up where they should. There’s more to reality than we reflect at any one time. But we’re art, too. We spend our days and nights among living, breathing, art galleries.