Right mirrors are always smaller than left ones

The city in the car’s mirror is a city that goes unseen. The driver doesn’t choose it; the passengers don’t gaze into it; they don’t form a relationship with it. It drifts alongside, like a backdrop to the traffic—a visual noise, a flow of indistinguishable facades, traffic lights, intersections, stops, and other cars. From inside the vehicle, it appears total, yet optional—a set that shifts as you move from one obligatory point to another: from home to work, from work to home. Through the entire metropolis, through traffic jams, through the same routes. The city outside the window transforms into a blur, a rapid succession, a mass of color devoid of detail. The reflection in the mirror merges with what is outside—optical noise becomes the norm of vision.