The scene behaves like a celebration that forgot its guest list. A single pale iris swells at the center, calm as a pond that has learned to breathe, while sugar-bright dots orbit it with the tidy patience of witnesses. Ribbons and rainbows practice their curves, as if color were a law written in soft chalk, easily erased, never quite gone.
Nothing stares, yet everything knows how. The eye doesn’t select you; it rehearses you. Blink, and the confetti notes the interval. Smile, and a small comet adjusts its tail. Even the harmless shapes keep score with a kindness that feels like custody.
If you enter, you will not be admitted so much as measured. You’ll pass through the light like a quiet answer, leaving only a faint indentation in the glitter. The parade continues, perfectly cheerful, perfectly exact, as though joy were a precision instrument.
