A silver wanderer prowls through the seizure of midnight, its coat stippled with equations that refuse solution. Each rosette is a recursive aperture: gaze into one and you fall, bloom-after-bloom, through fractal corridors where gravity negotiates with myth.
Around it, incendiary botanicals ignite, tufts of chromatic synapse that hurl embers of potential into the void, scripting new constellations faster than memory can ossify them. Their pollen drifts like classified data, rewriting the protocols of seeing: we no longer look at the scene but are looked-through by it, transparent to its analysis.
The mountain smoulders beneath, a clandestine furnace where geological epochs are incinerated for fuel; what rises is not smoke but the archive of unchosen histories, backlit in crimson. The beast inhales, metabolising catastrophe into poise, standing astride two ontologies, one kerneled in lucent delirium, the other in obsidian certitude.
Thus the tableau negotiates its own paradox: an edenic detonation, gentle yet apocalyptic, where the witness must decide whether to become predator, prey, or the unrecoverable dream that orchestrates them both.
