I picture my present awareness as a tilted planet at maximum lean—two hemispheres of impulse sliding past one another along an unseen ecliptic. A hidden axis runs through me; above it, thought drifts sunward and stretches, below it, it recoils into shadow and compresses. The portrait records this seasonal torque: long, noise-ruffled threads are sheared in opposite directions on either side of a sinusoidal “solstice line.” Wherever motion would retrace itself, I cut apertures—intentional gaps that cool the page like winter air. The result is a lattice of slanted strata that never quite align, a quiet proof that identity is forged where illumination and obscurity rub and slip.