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Bastia, Corse, France
Kolob wasn’t a planet. It was a wound. Each stroke of his stylus bled new suns into being, then sealed them shut again. I remember the color that didn’t exist before — the one that burned truth into sight. Every time I blink, I see it etched behind my eyelids, a signature in cosmic ash.
They called it art; I call it aftermath.
The gallery opens at dawn. Bring no eyes.[/h1]