Mixed media on gesso 18×24
“It’s What You Think”
In the thirty-third chamber of the sleeping Sun-Engine, the Custodian finally woke up—but only halfway. His legs remained coiled springs of forgotten matter, rooted in the soft crust of the echoing plain known as Yun-Desh-Vool. Above him, an alphabet nobody remembered continued to write itself in real time, spelling and respelling “It’s what you think,” over and over, until the letters began to hum.
A bifurcated path emerged—one side writhing in viscous red certainty, the other in blue speculation. Planets, or perhaps eyes, or possibly decorative larvae, hovered in attendance. Each offered opinions, but only in tones of pure geometry.
The purple sentinel to the right, known in old glyphs as Zinex the Inverted Question, observed without observing. It had once swallowed all its own thoughts and replaced them with someone else’s. That someone had since died, yet the thoughts remained—haunting its curves.
The custodian’s arms became symbols, his torso a vesica of interpretation, his thoughts a currency no longer accepted in this quadrant of the unreal. Above him, meaning and language played dice with gravity. Below, memory melted into waxy folds of unrealized possibilities.
This is not a scene. It is a broadcast. A transmission from the inner edge of cognition.
Don’t decode it. Let it decode you.