Prompt

In the heart of an empty, dreamlike cityscape, a lone man stands before a shuttered bar with a flickering neon sign that reads “Last Call”—though the letters melt like candle wax into the pavement. His mouth is open in a silent scream, stretched impossibly wide, as if trying to release something too large for sound. The streetlights bend unnaturally toward him, casting elongated, unnatural shadows. Alex Maleev