Mangled skirmish, of bespeckled olive-green serpents. Their sinuous anarchy runs cold upon her skull. Caravaggio, you immortalized the *****, immured her, hermetically sealed her within that shield. Her reflection was at once the face she never saw...******, she...then beheaded. I notice you've even painted the shield the color of her serpentine locks. Serpents registering her ontological shock-- retentive, entwining, dangling in an odd curl here and there. Blood spurting from her almost indiscernible neck, as if to draw a passable neck of blood, almost like rays of blood, Christ's pierced side. Her eyes seem so determined to chisel their way out of stone, reconnect her head to her body. Her face is stunning, an excruciating ferocity bulking stiff, slightly opened mouth about to... explode out of her eyes. Eyes hissing downward, sideways--there in the pitch black glint of them...a primordial drama to be continued.