He was born from the cough of a dying star, clothed in the smoke of forgotten wars. His heart ticks backward. Birds perch on his shoulders and whisper names he never had. A flare grows from his palm like a slow red flower, pulsing with dreams that once tried to scream. Cities melt in his footsteps, not from fire, but from memory. He does not walk — he unravels. His anger is not his own; it is the ghost of a thousand silent mouths, stitched shut by time, now humming in his bones like static.
Digital Painting
4000x6000 px
spitfingers
