The horizon dilates like an anxious pupil, allowing the chromatic deluge to seep into the fragile lie of symmetry. Here, mountains masquerade as sentinels of certainty, yet their contours bleed, pink into red, azure into void, betraying the secret that no boundary survives long in the theatre of perception. The lake, mute and indifferent, mirrors nothing; it absorbs every hue until reflection itself is annulled, a quiet indictment of consciousness pretending at coherence. In the distant haze a solitary orb smolders, neither sun nor omen but an interior wound projected outward, insisting on its own impossible permanence. I advance, or dream that I advance, and feel the terrain recoil: each step an accusation, each color a verdict, each silence the echo of a sentence passed before time remembered to invent language.
