The canvas stretches beyond its frame, an endless horizon of cracked pigment and

$The canvas stretches beyond its frame, an endless horizon of cracked pigment and peeling varnish, where colors rot and dissolve into one another, merging into a stagnant sea of dead light. The sky is an oil spill, shimmering, shifting, pulsating with unseen forms that stretch like hands grasping for something nameless. The clouds are not clouds—they are erasures, holes in the world, absences where meaning should be, where structure should hold, but does not. The buildings bend at impossible angles, twisting against perspective lines that fracture and spiral, converging into a singular, yawning maw of ink and void. The streets have no vanishing point, only an endless recursion of narrowing pathways that coil inward, feeding into themselves like a spiral of rotting graphite. The brickwork bleeds, slow and viscous, the mortar dissolving into crimson cracks that widen as if exhaling, as if breathing, as if waiting. The ground writhes beneath an impasto of flesh tones—soft, wet, too human. Footsteps sink into it, leaving impressions that never fade, never dry. Shadows stretch unnaturally long, dragging behind their sources like broken marionettes, detaching, standing upright when they should not. There are figures in the periphery, but they are not drawn. They are not painted. They exist between strokes, between layers, between the boundaries of perception. The windows gape open, hollow sockets of abandoned structures that breathe a deep, heaving exhale, glass trembling, rattling, crying. Something stirs within them, behind them, between them. The reflections do not match their sources. The doors stand ajar, leading only to blackness—too thick, too still, too absolute. The walls whisper in a dialect of scratched charcoal and forgotten prayers, their messages layered, buried, rewritten. The frame of reality is bending, bending, bending. The sky does not meet the earth. The air is painted wrong—its colors too warm, too cold, flickering between hues in an erratic, fever$

The canvas stretches beyond its frame, an endless horizon of cracked pigment and peeling varnish, where colors rot and dissolve into one another, merging into a stagnant sea of dead light. The sky is an oil spill, shimmering, shifting, pulsating with unseen forms that stretch like hands grasping for something nameless. The clouds are not clouds—they are erasures, holes in the world, absences where meaning should be, where structure should hold, but does not. The buildings bend at impossible angles, twisting against perspective lines that fracture and spiral, converging into a singular, yawning maw of ink and void. The streets have no vanishing point, only an endless recursion of narrowing pathways that coil inward, feeding into themselves like a spiral of rotting graphite. The brickwork bleeds, slow and viscous, the mortar dissolving into crimson cracks that widen as if exhaling, as if breathing, as if waiting. The ground writhes beneath an impasto of flesh tones—soft, wet, too human. Footsteps sink into it, leaving impressions that never fade, never dry. Shadows stretch unnaturally long, dragging behind their sources like broken marionettes, detaching, standing upright when they should not. There are figures in the periphery, but they are not drawn. They are not painted. They exist between strokes, between layers, between the boundaries of perception. The windows gape open, hollow sockets of abandoned structures that breathe a deep, heaving exhale, glass trembling, rattling, crying. Something stirs within them, behind them, between them. The reflections do not match their sources. The doors stand ajar, leading only to blackness—too thick, too still, too absolute. The walls whisper in a dialect of scratched charcoal and forgotten prayers, their messages layered, buried, rewritten. The frame of reality is bending, bending, bending. The sky does not meet the earth. The air is painted wrong—its colors too warm, too cold, flickering between hues in an erratic, fever

Terika

The canvas stretches beyond its frame, an endless horizon of cracked pigment and peeling varnish, where colors rot and dissolve into one another, merging into a stagnant sea of dead light. The sky is an oil spill, shimmering, shifting, pulsating with unseen forms that stretch like hands grasping for something nameless. The clouds are not clouds—they are erasures, holes in the world, absences where meaning should be, where structure should hold, but does not. The buildings bend at impossible angles, twisting against perspective lines that fracture and spiral, converging into a singular, yawning maw of ink and void. The streets have no vanishing point, only an endless recursion of narrowing pathways that coil inward, feeding into themselves like a spiral of rotting graphite. The brickwork bleeds, slow and viscous, the mortar dissolving into crimson cracks that widen as if exhaling, as if breathing, as if waiting. The ground writhes beneath an impasto of flesh tones—soft, wet, too human. Footsteps sink into it, leaving impressions that never fade, never dry. Shadows stretch unnaturally long, dragging behind their sources like broken marionettes, detaching, standing upright when they should not. There are figures in the periphery, but they are not drawn. They are not painted. They exist between strokes, between layers, between the boundaries of perception. The windows gape open, hollow sockets of abandoned structures that breathe a deep, heaving exhale, glass trembling, rattling, crying. Something stirs within them, behind them, between them. The reflections do not match their sources. The doors stand ajar, leading only to blackness—too thick, too still, too absolute. The walls whisper in a dialect of scratched charcoal and forgotten prayers, their messages layered, buried, rewritten. The frame of reality is bending, bending, bending. The sky does not meet the earth. The air is painted wrong—its colors too warm, too cold, flickering between hues in an erratic, fever

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