I awaken to find my own visage imprisoned in a cold baroque halo, as though some antique mirror had mistaken itself for an iron maiden. Across my sealed eyelids glide miniature worlds, gaudy spheres that hum with foreign gravity yet deny me the smallest glimpse of their horizons. They block not only sight but the very suspicion of sight; the planets have conspired to become my blindfold, lest I betray the cosmos by looking back at it.
Meanwhile, painted vortices blossom across my skin like incurable lesions. Each whirlpool hints at a forbidden depth, an eye turned inside-out, observing me from beneath my flesh. I sense that these swirling pupils bear witness to a tribunal convened in secret, one that interrogates my existence for the simple offense of being opaque.
And the chains, those dripping chandeliers of rusted lace, tick against my chin like the patient metronome of a verdict still unread. I wait, dangling between orbits and mirror glass, listening for the cosmic gavel that will finally decide whether I am the prisoner of these worlds or their reluctant creator.
