It seems to me that the loneliest people I know come with bright exteriors showing no indication that they are dying of aloneness. Empty boxes, with pretty flowers and angels, decorated with ribbons and lace, seemed to fit the feeling. On close inspection the mirror shows a symbolic figure, a head, mirrored back and forth, the poor soul mirroring its own self ad infinitum. How sad for this soul who’s life is one of total self, perhaps trapped in the bottle of Four Roses on the table which holds a single orchid blossom. It’s a kind of desperate place, swirling and drowning in the green of it, trapped by a barricade of paper boxes. It’s so easy to escape the loneliness by simply taking the lids off or moving the boxes aside and letting the light shine in.