Supple wings, veined and iridescent—do they wink at you, tips curling over the top of toadstools from where their bearers peek at you, like a puzzle to be solved, like prey to be stolen from? They whisper behind cupped hands, the sound rushing to blow the strands off your neck.

Flash fades, edges soften; a blade of light sits beneath the curtain. Brush strokes sharpen, context unfurls as frames are carefully shattered and re-hung, windows slide open to the worlds behind your eyes. Corners suddenly rendered oblique. Familiar angles bend and break.