The Cloud Upon Her Brow
Upon a chair of solemn wood, She sat - as only madness could - In garments torn by Time’s decree, Betwixt the womb and mockery.
Ivan in Abstracts
Upon a chair of solemn wood, She sat - as only madness could - In garments torn by Time’s decree, Betwixt the womb and mockery.
Received at midnight. The package stood at my door. No sender. No sound when it was placed. Only a silent pressure at the nape of my neck...
Meet Ken and Barbie. They’re totally trendy, ultra aesthetic, the perfect couple in every feed. She wears Prada, he drives a Maserati. Th...
I am no longer. Just a static shell, a trace of a human.
I am only shadow now, bent to the power that feeds me.
I've grown small, cowering beneath the current. Like a child before a god.
My breath is no longer mine. It follows the rhythm of waves that drown me.
I tune myself in, to the chaos, to the frequency of numbness.
I become part of the device, no longer a sender, only reception.
I merge with the noise, my gaze becomes a mirror, my skin just a filter.