Hatching lines carve into fragile flesh, cross-hatching scars tracing spirals of

$Hatching lines carve into fragile flesh, cross-hatching scars tracing spirals of silent suffering. The composition fractures, splintering into grotesque symmetry, faces blooming in the negative space, multiplying, multiplying, multiplying. Chiaroscuro violence, a chiaroscuro of endless shadow, dripping gouache of arterial black, too thick, too rich, a stain that seeps through the layers, deeper, deeper, deeper. The vanishing point collapses inward, folds upon itself, a Möbius strip of fractured perception. Stippling halos crown hollowed eyes, feverish impasto thickening along the edges, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating. The highlight is misplaced, the light source is absent, and yet the glow persists—spectral, sentient, wrong. A face, not hers, sketched in dry brush, embedded beneath the final layers. It moves when unobserved. It breathes between the cracks in the composition. It is not pigment, not graphite, not paint. It is a mistake that should have been erased, erased, erased. But there is no undo. There is no undo. There is no undo. Ink bleeds, distorts, spreads, tendrils of accidental shadows creeping beyond the frame. The background shifts—horizon lines shudder, architecture twists into something unrecognizable, recursive, recursive, recursive. The perspective was never correct. The depth is infinite, and yet it is crushing, suffocating, pressing inward, inward, inward. The layers merge, dissolve, collapse. The canvas is screaming. The image does not end. The image does not end. The image does not end.$

Terika

Hatching lines carve into fragile flesh, cross-hatching scars tracing spirals of silent suffering. The composition fractures, splintering into grotesque symmetry, faces blooming in the negative space, multiplying, multiplying, multiplying. Chiaroscuro violence, a chiaroscuro of endless shadow, dripping gouache of arterial black, too thick, too rich, a stain that seeps through the layers, deeper, deeper, deeper. The vanishing point collapses inward, folds upon itself, a Möbius strip of fractured perception. Stippling halos crown hollowed eyes, feverish impasto thickening along the edges, suffocating, suffocating, suffocating. The highlight is misplaced, the light source is absent, and yet the glow persists—spectral, sentient, wrong. A face, not hers, sketched in dry brush, embedded beneath the final layers. It moves when unobserved. It breathes between the cracks in the composition. It is not pigment, not graphite, not paint. It is a mistake that should have been erased, erased, erased. But there is no undo. There is no undo. There is no undo. Ink bleeds, distorts, spreads, tendrils of accidental shadows creeping beyond the frame. The background shifts—horizon lines shudder, architecture twists into something unrecognizable, recursive, recursive, recursive. The perspective was never correct. The depth is infinite, and yet it is crushing, suffocating, pressing inward, inward, inward. The layers merge, dissolve, collapse. The canvas is screaming. The image does not end. The image does not end. The image does not end.

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