This is not bread. It is the magma of life that bakes under the crust of appearance. An incandescent silence. A core in which colors are kneaded to the limit, without recipe, without beginning or end, without morality.
It is food that is not eaten, but understood. A living knot of tensions, an ordered chaos, in which all the scattered stories of the world gather. Each fiber of color is a fiber of destiny. Each layer, a drifting memory that refuses to die.
Looking at it, you feel like being silent. Here, words are no longer needed. It is enough to make you hungry.