Benwardo, a quiet bloke from Yeppoon, paints like the world owes him an apology and he’s decided to collect it in bright, impossible colours. His eggs sizzle on red dirt under a sun that clearly never learned manners, while mushrooms strap on rocket flames and bugger off to wherever mushrooms go when they’re done with gravity. The moon, looking properly knackered, has a dart hanging off its lip and watches the whole circus with the mild contempt of a bouncer who’s seen every idiot in town. Down on the beach a crowned skull in knock-off Ray-Bans grins at a departing meteor and insists, in fading sand-writing, that it never died—classic Queensland denial. Everything tilts just enough to feel true, like a childhood dream that grew up, got a sunburn, and refused to sober up. So it goes, mate: pass the stubby, squint at the horizon, and let the next quiet apocalypse stroll past in thongs.