A towering, mechanical chrysanthemum unfolding in a storm — petals of chrome lined with circuits, trembling under sheets of rain made of raw code. Lightning forks dance through a cyclonic sky of flickering screens, some cracked, some looping fragments of human faces whispering approval. At the heart of the flower: a small, flickering pulse of warm light — part ember, part question mark — straining to stay alight beneath the machinery of judgment. The earth is molten thought, half nurturing, half devouring. A raven made of wire hovers, unsure whether to guard or flee.