She's what one would call a human projector

Works of fiction spew from her o-shaped mouth at the speed of light

Sometimes so intricate they can even make you cry

But still, in the end, you can always see the room where she hides

Where all those nasty little vulnerabilities reside

Where people don't normally look

But could, easily, if they tried

And daunting as it may seem to trek into the unknown of that small room

One might find something truly beautiful in the truth's celluloid shine

Before it's stretched and altered for an audience to view

And locked away in a vault, preserved for all time