cinna flow, In a surreal expanse where the whispering grass grows taller than time itself, a lone samurai stands like a relic of a dream half- remembered. His silhouette, sharp as a blade, cuts through the monochrome haze, a living ink painting torn from the pages of a storybook. The air hums with the faint echo of a Cheshire Cat’s grin, and the horizon shimmers like the Yellow Brick Road, leading nowhere and everywhere at once. His katanas, three in number, rest at his side, their blades catching the glow of embers that drift like fireflies from a land of Oz. His topknot, loosely bound, unravels in the wind, strands of hair twisting like the riddles of the Mad Hatter. Above, a flock of crows—part bird, part shadow—ascends into a sky where clouds swirl like the smoke of a wizard’s pipe. The scene is a dance of contrasts: bold brushstrokes carve his form, while delicate shading whispers of a world caught between serenity and chaos. The embers pulse, casting faint light on the uneven terrain, where shadows stretch like the arms of the Queen of Hearts’ card soldiers. The samurai’s stillness is a storm contained, his eyes reflecting the duality of a warrior- poet, lost in thought yet poised to strike. Here, in this liminal space where Alice’s wonder meets Dorothy’s journey, the samurai embodies the spirit of bushidō—a guardian of forgotten realms, a wanderer between worlds. The ink bleeds, the wind sings, and the moment hangs, suspended between the tick of a pocket watch and the roar of a tornado