That bird — hurling itself across a world that's been shattered and reassembled into something that shouldn't hold together but absolutely does.
Your eye goes straight to the flamingo — across a river that arcs like a parenthesis around something unspeakable, over fields of jade and gold seen from somewhere above the clouds. A sun, or maybe a moon, refusing to commit in the corner. The whole surface pressing forward, every tile of paint alive.
And in the middle of all that ancient, shattered beauty — one flamingo, completely certain of where it's going.
