Quintessence (668)

A vast wing seems to unfold at the center of the canvas, streaked with purples, pinks, and radiant whites. It emerges like a metamorphosis, recalling the butterfly leaving its chrysalis to embrace the infinite space. Around it, browns, golds, and greens stir like matter still in fusion, a shifting soil, a universe in gestation. Everything here breathes passage, becoming: nothing is fixed, everything calls for momentum, for flight. The wing is not only fragile, it also carries memory, light, vital breath. It links earth to air, density to transparency, weight to grace, in this promise of perpetual transformation, in the silent beating that gives rise to worlds. And if every wing opening in the unseen were but a fragment of the creation in the act of unfolding?