Here stands the aftermath, glazed in god-blood and void. The form—broad, strong, imposing—bears the weight of what it once held. The surface, glossed and inky it languishes in the light. As if the very air recoiled from its making. No cracks. No weakness. Only the perfect, terrible smoothness of a deed done without remorse.
This vase does not ask for flowers. It asks if you, too, have hunger enough to fill it.
