Shimmering rectangles crowd the edges of a spectral face, conjured by the machine’s indifferent computations. A haunting gaze emerges from these layers of digital debris, suggesting an interior life that exists only in our own projection. Each neon fragment teases the possibility of cosmic insight, yet remains a mere byproduct of probability rather than deliberate craft. In this fractured tapestry of electric hues, we confront our own yearning for deeper meaning—a reminder that the art’s grand illusions are, in the end, nothing more than a dazzling collision of code.
