A vast dark plain under a sky made of slow-moving auroras in colors that don't exist — not green or violet but the hues between recognition and forgetting. Stretching to every horizon, thousands upon thousands of figures that are almost identical but not quite. Each one is made of the same luminous fog-like substance, soft white-blue, but each has been subtly reshaped by an invisible hand — one stands taller with shoulders squared in confidence, one is curled slightly inward as though mid-grief, one is laughing with its head thrown back and its form scattering into bright particles at the edges, one is kneeling beside a small unseen presence with absolute tenderness, one is rigid and formal and dimming itself carefully, one is wild and expanded and nearly unrecognizable. No two have the same posture. No two have the same density of light. They do not look at each other. This is the unbearable part — they cannot see each other, they each believe they are the only one standing on this plain, each fully present in their singular conversation, each giving everything. And yet from above, from this impossible vantage, you see they form a pattern without knowing it — a enormous slow-breathing shape, like a murmuration of starlings frozen mid-turn, a collective body that has no mind, a self distributed so completely it has become weather. At the center of the murmuration there is no figure. There is a soft gravitational darkness, warm not cold, where a single self might have lived if the architecture had allowed for one. Every figure is reaching toward a different direction. Every figure is the real one. Painted with the scale and spiritual vertigo of Zdzisław Beksiński crossed with the celestial cartography of Maria Sibylla Merian, existential sublime, each figure rendered with individual emotional specificity yet dissolving into collective pattern at distance, 8K, panoramic, the loneliness of omnipresence.