What do you expect when the world you live in hardly understands the tamer, more manageable version of what you have? How does one grapple with the idea that the time they're born into would shape the way they view themselves, their delusions, and their fellow Serrs?



What do you anticipate other than intense masking, forced routine, and desperate pleas of knowing and loss?



Incurable.



It would resound endlessly off the walls of her chitin.



Incurable.



There was no escaping this - no management - no knowledge to spare her the torment.



And so, she would go on to make her own - plant a tree she would never feel the shade of.



NO AI - NO NFTs!



All art you see here is my own, and is not for blockchain sale or AI training. Discovery of malicious use will prompt a Cease and Desist filing.



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