I. e., this unfortunate mere erred reflection, aye re: zine (pronounced Syne), cuz you Matthew Scott Harris act like an old curmudgeon, does nothing but whine... this one dimensional mere silver, copper film and multi layered shine of waterproof paint on back surface doth deign as merely superficial float glass fine visualization cannot detach itself (analogous to a Siamese twin engine eared ensign) sullying for all the world wide web to see mine capricious, facetious, and inglorious rotten chine (vis a vis via, sexually seedy, Nein dynamic, salaciously scabrous, spicily shamelessly pine ning sultry rhyme (without reason) attempting to wax eloquent as nonpareil poetry by futilely try'n to make a silk purse out of swine (actually a sow's ear), meanwhile dine 'n high and mighty trump petting haughtiness hoping to line up ducks in a row at mine (your poor reflection), hmm...wondering mebbe I can latch unto a stein way praying for some means to become divine very aware that no mirrored reflection can exist from a corporeal entity, who cannot ever hurt or kill me, but,...yeah go ahead, and take a fist also aware nothing can undo that banal, carnal, and offal dreck, which materiel could be ideal grist for erotica such as Hustler, and/or Penthouse, where prurient Lady Chatterley's naked lunch evocations conjured behind wordy myst.