Some worldbuilding stuff. dozens of cities, called clots, though long abandonded, grow outward and upward to the disjointed beating of a sickly heart. These spaces are desolate and unlivable, each pulse comes with the risk of total collapse under the clots own weight. Many clots do collapse, and devolve into tangled messes of rubble and glass, still trying to reach toward the stars with gnarled, bloated fingers. The miraculous few that support themselves go far beyond the clouds.
Redraw of the 1888 painting "Favourite Poet" by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, but made it a Juno Steel and Peter Nureyev thing. Digital painting is out of my comfort zone. So took the prompt "Keeping it Classic" from the Penumbra Creators Collective, as a personal challenge.