Creatures Underfoot dwell in the molten margins of reason — radiant, wriggling things that pulse with color theory and cosmic nonsense. They bloom from spores of sound, coil around vibrations, and whisper to your soles in a language made of shimmer. Beneath every reflective puddle, every rainbow-spit swamp, they gather in parliaments of paradox: some shaped like flowers that walk, others like thoughts that bite. Though microscopic in myth, they loom large in hallucination. Step lightly, dream brightly — the soil thinks back
Midjourney 6/Luma
