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Two hands form a heart, but the gesture leans more toward absurd celebration than affection a silent cheer as the sky turns crimson. Moths float through the frame, rendered in soft greyscale, their nocturnal presence quietly opposing the brightness of butterflies. The Apocalypse balances on the edge of irony and surrender, capturing a moment when darkness rises and the response is to lift your hands, not in fear, but in some twisted welcome.
