...


Worse Lift

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

It Will Get Lighter

It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.

i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything

i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate

i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me

yes

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"

so at the end

and the fake qualifier

all that is to say

Better Lift

to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos

what do you mean

i am quite confused, not quite getting the idea of it

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.

so the method has to be autonomous

so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged

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whats your name?