Art is just revenge masquerading as healing, “writers” sculling like jellyfish towards the dying suns of influencer retweets from their coordinates (mistaken for a personality) on the creepie–normie matrix, throwing aesthetic suicide b*mbs in a medium no one cares about, the dream of pure content belied by the same Instagram cults of personality that inflect all human organizing, just without the money. People want to see your face so they know how much to hate you. This website is a cash-only pizza shop where people come to launder their id and sculpt some eternity on the bathroom wall while we think about the end.