There are triangles in that mirror. And in that one there. In all the mirrors and lenses and eyeballs ever known the God of Isosceles reigns, shoving forth his subjects and flooding the world. The vertices originate in my joints and span outward at giant angles, always equal, always symmetric, always in congruent pairs. I wish instead for parallel lines so tiny and thin they appear as one. A slightly visible stripe emanating from the corner, barely hovering above the floor.