In the yellow-fevered expanse of a forgotten dream, the old wall of consciousness begins to surrender. Scratches like forgotten hieroglyphs map out ancient sorrows, while the very skin of the moment, a layer of brittle paint, curls back to reveal the void beneath. Across this decaying canvas, silent, ink-black figures stand their ground, immutable shapes against the screaming yellow. And then, a singular, violent slash of white—a brushstroke so raw you can feel the drag of every bristle—cuts through the scene, a final, defiant thought before a single black dot punctuates the silence, an end to a story that was never told.
