A pale behemoth blooms, rooted in bewildered silence.

Something ancient and impossible has taken up residence in the parlor, its skin like the surface of forgotten fruit, its many bare feet planted with the quiet authority of a thing that intends to stay. The two visitors stand in the grammar of polite society while confronting a sentence that has no translation. A door in its side opens like a confession, and the man within regards the room as though he, not they, is the one who has arrived somewhere strange.

May 5, 2026

this image sits 2.4 bits from the center of the collection