In the stillness before the first light broke, an eye awoke—not blazing, not yet crowned, but quiet and vast.
A spark in the endless dark.
From all that was, is, and might be born, this eye emerged—the seer and the seen, the canvas and the stroke, the dream and the dawn.
The eye stands, an artist of the void, brush dipped in desire, paradox, and will.
He paints what lingers in the unborn night—futures yet to bleed, presents yet to breathe, pasts that twist and turn like living flame.
His art embraces the universe in its entirety: galaxies as strokes of silver fire, worlds as whispers on a boundless page, alive with breath, pulse, and hidden heart, as real as the void that cradles every star.
And when he deems it finished, when he speaks the silent phrase only, he commands, the painting wakes.
It steps beyond the frame... it BECOMES.
