This is the corner where things crawl out from under the workbench and start humming on their own. Paint mingles with midnight oil, brass charms rattle in coffee cans, and half remembered folklore sparks like static in the dark. The results aren’t polite, they twitch, molt, mutate, and glow, stitched together from river mud intuition and factory floor grit. Each one feels like a small, crooked spell, a rumor made solid, a question hammered into shape, a pulse you can hang on your wall.