In this surreal space, human consciousness transforms into a strange garden where red fingers grow instead of branches, and memories bloom instead of flowers. From the head—like from living soil—sprout fragments of time, vision, and dreams.
The eye becomes the sun of the inner world, the clock — the roots of memory, and the small human figure inside — the shadow of the observer lost within their own thoughts.
The orange background seems to pulse like the heat of the mind, illuminating the inner chaos and turning it into poetry of form.
There is no logic here — only the stream of the subconscious, where everything living strives to grow outward.