In the mute delirium of the plain, every filament of color is a clandestine equation: desire divided by distance, anxiety multiplied by light. The horizon, anemic and porous, leaks pale memories into the sky, where concentric wounds bloom like unhurried detonations. Below, rootless trees vibrate with orphaned sap, each trunk rehearsing the vertigo of becoming someone else.
The air is thick with hypotheses: that perception might be a mirage manufactured by our own nervous flora; that time is merely the dream a flower has of itself while waiting to wilt. Pools of liquid mirrorglass lie scattered, reflecting futures that refuse to synchronize with their reflections. A spindle-veined stalk bends toward a crimson halo, seeking the silence lodged at the center of all explanations, yet finding only the soft hum of recursive doubt.
Here, subject and object change costumes without notice. A thought germinates, uncoils, and slides outward, its tendrils knotting around a distant pulse of pink, and, in that entanglement, the landscape confesses: consciousness is not a stage on which phenomena perform, but the choreography itself, endless, circular, and perilously alive.
