Celebrities tar and feather themselves for your attention. Behold, a man! No such monster here! No idols hiding under your bed! Believe what you see, not what you read. Read, what do you see? Letterboxes instead of pages?
A touch of manic desperation in their attempts to entertain you, hold your gaze steady like a basilisk. Never look away! See me! See me dance to a tune! A merry little jig! What do you see? A chicken, instead of a man? A jester in a feather suit?
...There's still monsters under your bed. You can't be sure, but the vision-box seems to make less sense the more you stare at it. Not in a pleasant, entertaining way that you had come to know and love, but haven't things gotten more strange lately?
Preen your feathers, young angel. Be what they tell you to be, lest they tar you from head to toe, and no amount of dish soap will save you. Your halo will ever shine bright, amidst the fog and confusion, a beacon of relative safety for those around you. But what was once broken, will stay that way, and no amount of kintsugi will hide the hollow parts inside.