From a delicate row of eggs, one has broken open — not with the beak of a bird, but with the emergence of a tiny man. Still glistening with the fluid of birth, he sits hunched on the rim of his shell, startled and vulnerable. The others remain whole, bearing faces in silent premonition. Is this a liberation, or merely the first breath of a deeper enclosure? The fragility of the shell is rivaled only by the fragility of the self.