Last week (in the middle of the night no less) the massive mirror in our bathroom fell off of the wall. I cannot begin to describe the surreal reality of being jolted out of sleep by a sound both monumentally piercing and instantaneous. I also cannot adequately describe the experience of opening the bathroom door to a room bathed in shards of glass.
There is little good about the experience really--save for the fact that I find the rather large, now-revealed dollops of obviously ineffective glue on our wall interesting aesthetically and materially. I like the idea of a painting buried in the fabric of domestic life.
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