The color of venous blood that no longer flows has filled all space. The sky has become forever alien. A zone of frustration, materialized as a primary, amoeba-like mass. This is not mere flesh — it is a substance of rejection, that very sticky reality in which consciousness bogs down under the weight of realization. It is passively inexorable, like an affliction fused to a swamp. Its goal is not to destroy, but to absorb, to dissolve, to become part of the background. The nourishment of life’s tenderness is consumed by this mass not through an act of violence, but through an act of returning to emptiness. This is not cannibalism — it is entropy. The body ceases to be a body. Reality is ghostly. Purity, virginity. Life is devoid of life. Neither refuge nor hope. Witnesses — those very overseers from the panopticon who watch but do not intervene. They too are part of this Limbo, like everything else. • Oil painting, canvas 30x40