A solemn figure sits amidst a field of fractured eggshells — cracked, pierced, and oozing golden yolk. Yet the man’s gaze is not on the ruin around him; it’s fixed squarely on his own reflection, carefully suspended above. Asterisks replace the pupils in his mirrored eyes, like censorship marks or cosmic footnotes. This is not a confession — it’s a diagnosis delivered with theatrical stillness. Identity is scrutinized, not mourned. Ego is both subject and specimen.