Three smiling tourists pose near a helicopter.

Iron blooms from the sea like a mechanical lotus, trailing fire and the bones of rockets, while below, three open mouths drink in the apocalypse as if it were spring rain. The machine does not fly so much as insist upon existing in a place where physics has simply given up arguing. Red stars ripen overhead, fat with the kind of certainty that precedes very large craters.

Apr 23, 2026

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