Within the body, geometry is not static but breathing. Angles soften into arcs, arcs dissolve into lines, and lines fold into infinite variations of balance. Nothing stands alone; every shape leans into another, as though the body were a constellation written in flesh. The rhythm of expansion and contraction writes its own proportions: a chest rising, a hip yielding, a neck extending. Harmony here is not a fixed order but a pulse—shifting, reconfiguring, alive. The form exists as equation and as mystery, exact and unknowable at once.