CHROMASPHERE
First, a held breath.
The sphere is never drawn. It is found — by rays that walk into the dark and ask, at every step, how far is the nearest surface? The answer is a single number. The number is the world.
Then the field forgets its shape.
A gyroid moves through the sphere the way weather moves through a coastline. sin x · cos y, folded three ways — interference becomes structure, structure becomes storm.
Light behaves like oil on water.
Every colour on this page is one cosine, phase-shifted. Thin-film iridescence, faked with four numbers — the surface blooms because the palette turns with your point of view.
The storm settles into glass.
What remains is the memory of turbulence: a surface that has stopped moving but not stopped listening. Press it, and the field remembers everything.