As reflective as this place is, Canada's never been able to shake the feeling that it hates reflections. She sometimes sees glimpses or angles or sweeping vistas that are beautiful because of their shattering black glass, perfect and unspoiled - except for her. Everywhere she sees the impressions of claws - damage from the lion, perhaps? Or are all these jagged edges traps for her? She was purified through destruction but the job wasn't finished - she still held onto too much of herself and the mirrors see her as a half finished job, not complete until the hollowing out is finished...

Her soft shoes toe through broken glass. She knows sleeping here is a terrible idea - but she needs to rest, and won't be able to find her way out tonight. The soft music of cracking, of things becoming smaller and sharper and even more difficult to repair, accompanies every footstep. The floor is no less cluttered here than her apartment but she doesn't even know where the clear spaces are. And everywhere she looks jagged eyes look back at her, violet bright circles and with violet dark circles of exhaustion. She'd broken this place too.

She finds a clear area - a huge piece of glass miraculously unbroken - and lies down atop it. Her head turns to the side and it seems like she's lying in the embrace of her own reflection. She looks at her with quiet reproach, and as much as she wishes she would comfort her, forgive her, it doesn't come.

So she sleeps in the vain hope that dreams will free her from her ten million eyes.