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More and more, everything seems based on artificiality. Humans used to go to art shows,  libraries, concerts and even nature to be inspired; now there is constant, infinite “inspiration” 24/7 that bleeds together in endless doom scrolling on your phone, where almost nothing stands out, nothing is special, beyond a mindless comment and a double tap, move on. Why? Our generation feeds on collective acceptance. Follow the same trends. Do the same work as the next person because that’s what that other person did, and for some reason, that is the key to success and fulfillment? More now than ever, I think, because social media makes it so easy to fall into this trap. These places we inhabit want you to be complacent. It’s literally placing you in a grid in boxes. And for some reason, we follow along, with the drive to be clones rather than individuals. Throughout history but now more than ever: “The blind lead the blind.” 

Remnants BTS


winter's prevailing.
his skin is like leather,
pulled across dreadful bones,
straining to keep them together.

his teeth, like charred wood,
blackened by tobacco,
die underneath a purple mesh of lip.

his eyelids quiver,
flapping underneath crusted snow.
red vein sprouts from his temple,
strangled, struggling to pump blood,
churning, wretched,
like an arctic bug's final breath.

wind whistles across his tendons and joints,
breaking like waves on fleshy shores,
threatening to blow him away like ash.

crows chirp and squeal overhead.
his eyes follow them,
desperate, dying creatures,
departed dictators of the icy plain,
just like him.
they are just as desperate.
they need to eat,
just as he does.

the cold terrain tears into him,
like a frozen flame,
making him numb, dizzy, and indifferent.

indifferent to life and death.
indifferent to happiness and sadness.
indifferent to joy and pain.

right hand clutches chest,
left snakes around neck.

indifferent to feeling.
indifferent to any heartbeat.

laying in this snow has made me sterile,

finally, boredom.
i dream of hot soup and a roaring fire.
a cabin lit with golden oil lamps.
and my mother.
my sweet mother, holding me, nurturing me.

with the help of the souls above,
his body is elevated to become a meal,
life support for the birds' heartbeats.

Gao Xingjian, Moon and Wind


Mountain lions hunt
Watch the prowl, the cinema
Snowy dreams, red blood

Read me, cardbon being
Bodies of gold and silver
Streaked lead, torn paper...

I’m rust. I am old
Memory unfolding now
Perfect pictures, sleep.

Freeze delicacy
Honoring cold existence
Green, brittle, iced pines

Sound the horn, call out
Springtime is waiting for him,
For the sleeping bear.

Drown in bird’s sweet chime.
Rise with her soft melody,
Beckoning farewell

Fresh rain, humid air
My first breath after impact.
Inhale, again.

Red flowers bloom on red skies
Spilled ruby and bloody lips
Teeth bite, find the fresh bodies.

Drenched in sweet nectar
Lover lies to me
White, torn sheets beg for freedom

Black bird, war torn sky
He is the king of kingdoms
Bright gifts and dark eyes.