"Merging faces. Four mouths. Resettled eyes."

Two beings huddle so close, faces pressed together, that the boundary between "I" and "you" ceases to exist. Their features don't just touch – they slowly merge into one another, forming a new, shared face. Where there should have remained two, four mouths emerge – bright, imbued with color, almost alive. As if intimacy here has its own anatomy.

One being has a small horn growing instead of a right ear; behind its back, it hides a bouquet where flowers end in stars. The other is devoid of eyes where one expects to find them: its gaze has migrated to its chest. On its forehead – a solitary star with long rays stretching upwards, like a memory of something that cannot be named.

Its body does not remain a body in the usual sense. From its belly, a shell grows sideways – colorful, almost mineral – and from it, an arm rises, along which a starry trail extends. On the fingertips – red manicure: a small, almost mundane gesture amidst this strange anatomy.

Between the breasts hangs an unfilled star – the only sign yet to be given color.

This is not a portrait of two beings. It is an image of the moment when separateness becomes insufficient. When faces can merge, eyes can change their place, and the body can begin to speak the language of flowers, horns, shells, and stars.

Here, intimacy is neither tender nor terrifying. It is alien, organic, almost cosmic. It transforms.