A visual riddle unfolds: the protagonist hatches from an egg, only to reveal another egg inside, containing a smaller self… and another… and another. A male reversal of the Matryoshka doll, this image spirals into infinity. Each version watches over its successor with quiet concern, as if guarding a secret that has yet to be born. Are we just vessels for former and future selves? Or is identity a nesting paradox, endlessly deferred?