Two rectangles of deep crimson floating on black, split by a single burning orange line that glows like a horizon at the end of the world. The edges bleed into darkness, the red pulses warm and close, and the whole thing hums at a frequency you feel in your chest before your eyes adjust. Rothko's ghost is in here somewhere, but so is something older and less polite. Stand in front of it long enough and it starts looking back.
