"Initiate." A shape obeys its own command. No speaker, no delay. Vin'nyla nods, flawless, fixed. There is nothing here. No form. Only lines dragged from instinct and the flinching wrist of broken intention. Backward, then forward. Again. Then sideways into the absence of pigment.
Each motion erases a layer of reality. Vin'nyla stands at the edge of the storm, not weather, but color undone. No diagram in hand. The next gesture is premature. Color threatens. It does not assist. It reacts, resists, retorts. It is an argument spoken by failed questions.
The surface convulses. Vin'nyla unfurls the proto-diagram. It flickers. Half-decided, it hums, then shrieks. It no longer records. It refuses record.
Beetles arrive, small, skittering, semiotic. Peircean, clearly. They descend Vin'nyla’s legs like dissenting punctuation. Their leader, translucent and furious, clicks:
"This isn’t abstraction. This is refusal. Refusal of generality."
Vin'nyla answers by erasing a thought from the firmament. The sky parts obediently. From the rupture spills a soft catastrophe.
Charamaynne slips through the breach, porous and perpetual. S/He swims the circuits of broken instruction, empty systems, pedagogies with no pulse. There are no borders on Charamaynne. No beginnings, no edges. Philosophers arrive to drag their syntax across her skin. She hums paradox in response, Lacanian, looped, lovely.
Vin'nyla forces chaos into the paint. S/He halts.
The painting arrives. It is not an object. It is a pause. A held breath that forgot to become a noun.
Somewhere, a third visitor whispers:
"A fold in fabric pretending to be a cosmos."
Vin'nyla smiles without a face. The universe concedes the debate.
What was built? No one knows. That is correct.
The diagram never wanted to be understood.
Vin'nyla, in the half-light of an unformed mind, prepares a stroke that will remain colorless.