A surreal, kaleidoscopic descent into madness a porcelain-faced figure with one eye spinning like a hypnotic vortex and the other leaking constellations, stands in a cracked ballroom of mirrors where gravity folds sideways. Butterflies made of screaming clock faces flutter through the air, melting into candy-colored liquid that drips upward. The moon has teeth, the walls are whispering your name backwards, and a velvet red curtain peels itself open to reveal a spiral staircase made of hands clapping in slow motion. The figure laughs too wide, too long their shadow pirouetting independently, dressed in a straightjacket of lace. Reality is elastic, sound is liquid, and nothing remembers what it was supposed to be. We all go a little mad sometimes.
