The lids close and the spirals begin— no, the spirals close and the eyes begin. Lime-yellow burns inward, a scream that forgot it had sound.

Pink riots at the corners. Gray dust swallows its own question. Turquoise is not a color here— it is a window that refused to open.

Each whorl eats the one before it. The face dreams in burgundy math. Closed eyes are not sleeping. They are spiraling down into the only room that makes sense: the dark spinning from the inside out.

The shells remember being eyes. The eyes remember being shells. Neither one is wrong.