And the hunt begins. Poor Actaeon doesn’t stand a chance against his own dogs.

And the hunt begins. Poor Actaeon doesn't stand a chance against his own dogs.
This photo could be read as dismembered arms reaching out in space without hope of contact-- but I prefer to look at the beauty of the flower-like hands making such nice negative space.
What beauty is not made for breaking? Beauty exists in time... right?
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