What else is there to see?

In a whirlwind dance of celluloid dreams, all perspective is lost, for each image rushes by so fast that their blurs turn into smoke.  And that very haze clouds visions, skews and distorts the slivers of chance which are hard enough to find, let alone find whole.   So we close our eyes, and our minds flicker with imagined scenarios, projecting hopes and idealizations against our eyelids.  We've become perceptions of ourselves, entranced by fabrication, unaware of the triviality pervading this identity.