Her image hovers in a twilight corridor where color and shape have stopped negotiating. The crown of her head sprouts tiny harbors made of humming, moss-covered violins. Her left cheek fractures into a glass mosaic of purring alphabets, each letter dripping ink that never hits the floor. Her right cheek drifts into a desert of pastel smoke, where hollow beetles march in patterns too subtle to be seen twice. At her throat hovers a silent pendulum carved from a single rose petal, counting time that doesn’t exist. Within her gaze, entire forests of thought bloom and wither in seconds, each leaf an unpublished poem insisting on its own mystery.