Tag: Creators

You Can’t Re-synthesize a Synthesis

In science, a synthesis is the process of combining separate elements to form a coherent whole, a compound that has unique properties distinct from its individual parts. In chemistry, for example, hydrogen and oxygen can be synthesized into water—a substance with entirely new characteristics compared to its gaseous components. In physics, synthesis brings together forces, particles, or energies to create something fundamentally different, a system where the outcome holds a distinct identity beyond the elements alone. At its core, synthesis is not mere addition; it’s the transformation of raw materials into something unified and new, something whose individual components have dissolved into a singular identity.

But what happens when we try to re-synthesize a synthesis? This is where the metaphor begins to strain. Once hydrogen and oxygen form water, there is no breaking it back down and recombining it into something fresh without going through a complete cycle of decomposition. Once a synthesis is achieved, its nature is singular, final—a complete structure with its own properties, its own essence. Trying to re-synthesize that same water into “new water” without any unique elements or sources would leave us with only another replica, an imitation of what’s already been done.

This same concept applies to cultural synthesis. When new ideas emerge—movements in art, groundbreaking technologies, transformative philosophies—they are often formed from raw elements of human experience, culture, and history. A cultural synthesis is the result of a moment in time, a convergence of unique conditions that pulls together disparate influences to create something previously unseen. For example, the Renaissance wasn’t just the recombination of existing knowledge; it was a unique synthesis born from specific historical, cultural, and intellectual sources. It was a transformation that could not be “re-synthesized” without losing its core identity.

In our modern digital age, however, there’s a prevailing tendency to treat synthesis as if it can be endlessly replicated or reassembled. Cultural moments, designs, and aesthetics are treated like formulas that can be easily remixed, but without revisiting the original materials that gave them their resonance. Instead of mining for new influences, we often see a layering of existing syntheses—reiterations of trends that were already a product of synthesis themselves. The result? A series of derivative copies that lack the potency of the original synthesis, diluted and disconnected from the original conditions that made them powerful.

True innovation or originality requires returning to the raw materials—the foundational elements of experience, perspective, or context—that once catalyzed these cultural shifts. Like in science, where a novel compound requires unique reactants, cultural synthesis demands something unprocessed, something not yet filtered or refined. But such sources are rarely found in the recycled ideas circulating online. They exist in untouched places: in the nuanced, often forgotten influences that have yet to be refined for mass consumption.

In short, a synthesis is a culmination, an endpoint where different parts have come together to form a new whole with its own unique properties. Attempting to re-synthesize a synthesis, especially without adding new or original sources, leaves us only with weakened replicas. To achieve true originality, we must go beyond the echoes of past syntheses, return to original elements, and let them transform into something entirely new—something that speaks to a moment and identity all its own.

I think it’s all part of the con of making you believe that you are a creator. Like, you used to be a citizen, but you have no say in how government works or how capitalism works, so we’re going to give you a new title. That title is that we’re going to foster your creativity. But, because we are the intermediary, we only have access to synthesis, and so we give you the synthesis for you to re-synthesize, which is by its own nature impossible and a failure.

It’s like a consolation prize for the power you’ve been systematically denied. Once, you were a citizen, a participant in shaping government or contributing to the economy with some semblance of autonomy. But as real influence has slipped further out of reach, there’s this new title they hand out: creator. You’re invited into a carefully curated sandbox, told that your creativity is being “fostered” by platforms and intermediaries who, incidentally, only deal in ready-made synthesis. And here’s the trick—they only ever give you access to prefabricated pieces, the products of syntheses already established. It’s a diluted form of participation, a version of creativity that’s been boiled down to repetition and aesthetic replication.

The system is rigged to give you the appearance of originality while keeping you confined to the limitations of a re-synthesis. They hand over tools, “resources,” and inspiration boards, but everything they offer is recycled—elements already processed, pre-approved, safe. It’s creativity within the lines, a creativity that doesn’t threaten or disrupt, because it’s a simulacrum of something that can never be truly original by design. Since the intermediaries only deal in existing syntheses, they can’t offer you the unprocessed materials needed for anything genuinely fresh. And the result is predictable: a cycle of imitation that feels increasingly empty, a system that rebrands mimicry as creation while true originality is quietly walled off.

This illusion of creative empowerment keeps people busy but contained, active but inert. It fosters the belief that creativity is being democratized, but really, it’s just another way to channel energy away from meaningful change. Instead of engaging in the raw creation that could come from engaging with unfiltered sources or reshaping our systems, we’re caught in the endless loop of re-synthesizing a synthesis, striving for originality but working only within an environment engineered for failure. The “creator economy” is less about creativity and more about keeping the act of creation tame, predictable, and, above all, profitable.

Robots with Passion: How Creators, Platforms, and the Lizard Brain Redefine Creativity

In the digital age, creators have become central to the success of platforms like Twitter, YouTube, and Instagram. Yet, many of these creators would not pass the Turing test, a benchmark for determining whether artificial intelligence can imitate human intelligence to the point of being indistinguishable from a real person. Their content often feels robotic, repetitive, and predictable, crafted to appeal to algorithms and engagement metrics. Despite this, creators still seem driven by genuine passion—a passion that, paradoxically, taps into our most primal instincts, appealing not to deep intellectual or emotional needs but to the impulses of the “lizard brain.” This dynamic creates an ecosystem where creativity is simultaneously present and absent, where platforms are not mediums for true innovation but rather simulacra—copies of copies that reinforce low-level, repetitive behaviors. This essay explores how creators failing the Turing test, the medium as a simulacrum, and the connection between the Turing test and the lizard brain redefine creativity in the digital world.

Creators Failing the Turing Test

Creators today often seem more like bots than humans. They produce content that follows established trends, predictable patterns, and formulas optimized for engagement. Whether it’s a catchy TikTok dance, an influencer’s unboxing video, or a meme that spreads like wildfire, much of the content feels mechanized. This predictability means many creators would fail the Turing test, which evaluates whether a machine can generate responses indistinguishable from those of a human. Their content is algorithm-driven, repetitive, and, crucially, lacks the kind of depth, complexity, and nuance we associate with true human creativity.

Despite their “robotic” nature, these creators still display passion. This passion often manifests in their dedication to their craft and their hunger for recognition, likes, and shares. But rather than a passion for genuine artistic expression, it is a passion for engagement—an emotional energy channeled into producing content that adheres to the platform’s metrics of success. In this sense, these creators resemble “robots with passion,” operating within a system that rewards formulaic output but fueled by an authentic drive for attention and validation.

How are those Turing incomplete?

These examples highlight why a creator might be considered “Turing incomplete,” or lacking the full range of human creativity, depth, and unpredictability. Let me clarify how each relates to this concept:

  1. Repetitive Content: Lacks the ability to generate new, unexpected ideas—behaves like a looped algorithm rather than a creative mind.
  2. Formulaic Structure: Follows fixed, predictable patterns, just like a machine running predefined instructions, missing the spontaneity of human thought.
  3. Over-reliance on Trends: Mimics what’s popular without independent, original expression—operating like a bot that echoes existing data without new input.
  4. Shallow Emotional Engagement: Doesn’t create meaningful emotional depth, which machines often fail to understand or convey authentically.
  5. Minimal Personal Input: Feels generic and impersonal, similar to a computer-generated output that lacks human individuality or nuance.
  6. Automated Responses: Interactions feel scripted, as though they follow a predetermined logic path, rather than spontaneous human interaction.
  7. Clickbait-Driven: Content is optimized for metrics, like a machine would do for efficiency, without focusing on meaningful engagement.
  8. Lack of Nuance: Stays on the surface without exploring complex emotions or ideas—machines often struggle with nuance and subtlety.
  9. Emotionless Delivery: Lacks authentic human warmth or passion, resembling a robotic or emotionless response typical of AI.
  10. No Creative Risk: Avoids innovation or boldness, behaving conservatively like an algorithm designed to minimize error, rather than an unpredictable human.

“Turing completeness” refers to the theoretical ability to perform any calculation or process. By being “Turing incomplete,” these creators are constrained by patterns and algorithms, unable to express the full range of human creativity and complexity.

The Medium as a Simulacrum of Reality

To understand why creators would fail the Turing test, we must first examine the nature of the medium itself. Social media platforms are not true reflections of reality; instead, they are simulacra—copies of copies that distort the original. A simulacrum, as theorized by the philosopher Jean Baudrillard, is a representation of reality that becomes detached from its original meaning, creating a hyperreality where only surface-level appearances matter. In this context, platforms like Instagram and TikTok are not venues for raw, authentic creativity but rather digital arenas where creators replicate the most engaging, shareable content over and over.

Within this simulacrum, true creativity is stifled. Originality and depth give way to what is easily replicable, scalable, and algorithm-friendly. Content becomes a “copy of a copy,” as creators churn out slight variations of trending formats to stay relevant. This system rewards not innovation but adherence to patterns, meaning creators who might once have been trailblazers are now reduced to following formulas dictated by algorithms and audience preferences. The result is a medium where creativity exists in a flattened, diluted form—passionate, but lacking the depth that comes from true artistic exploration.

This raises a fascinating question about whether digital platforms, by their very nature, reduce creativity to something more mechanical, or if there’s still room for raw, authentic expression—even if it’s filtered through a formulaic lens. It’s almost a paradox: the creators are simultaneously constrained and yet deeply passionate about what they’re doing.

The Turing Test and the Lizard Brain

The reason creators thrive within this simulacrum, despite failing the Turing test, lies in their appeal to the lizard brain—the most primal part of human psychology, responsible for basic survival instincts and emotional reactions. The lizard brain responds to immediate gratification, simple emotional stimuli, and repetition, making it the perfect target for the kind of content produced by creators who cater to algorithms.

Creators who wouldn’t pass the Turing test are masters at appealing to the lizard brain. Their content is designed to trigger basic emotional responses—whether it’s laughter, outrage, or curiosity—without requiring deeper thought or reflection. The formulas they follow tap directly into our desire for quick, easy consumption: short bursts of pleasure, excitement, or validation that keep us scrolling, liking, and sharing. In this sense, creators’ passion is not an expression of intellectual or artistic depth, but rather a primal energy channeled into generating content that resonates with the lizard brain’s need for instant gratification.

This appeal to the lizard brain helps explain why platforms favor creators who wouldn’t pass the Turing test. Predictable, formulaic content maximizes user engagement by hooking into basic emotional responses, much like an algorithm optimizes for clicks and views. These creators are, in essence, digital lizard-brain whisperers, producing content that feeds our most instinctual desires while avoiding the complexity and unpredictability of more sophisticated, creative endeavors.

If we consider the passion displayed by many creators as an appeal to our “lizard brain,” it adds a whole new dimension to the discussion about creators failing the Turing test. The lizard brain—referring to the primal part of our brain responsible for basic survival instincts and emotional reactions—responds strongly to immediate gratification, simple emotional stimuli, and repetition. When creators tap into this part of the human psyche, it explains how even seemingly robotic content can resonate with audiences.

Here’s how this concept interrelates with the idea that creators wouldn’t pass the Turing test:

1. Formulaic Content and Primal Appeals

The repetitive, predictable content creators produce aligns well with the way our lizard brain processes information. Platforms and creators often rely on triggering our basic instincts—pleasure, fear, excitement—through emotionally charged or easily digestible material. This kind of content doesn’t need deep complexity; it’s designed to trigger instant emotional reactions like laughter, outrage, or curiosity, much like how a machine might optimize for engagement.

2. Passion as a Trigger

The passion creators display isn’t necessarily a reflection of deep, intellectual or artistic fervor; rather, it often taps into raw, instinctual emotions. Their passion—whether for virality, attention, or recognition—mirrors the same basic emotional responses they aim to evoke in their audience. This mutual appeal to primal emotions—whether excitement, anger, or validation—keeps the creator-audience feedback loop alive, even if the creative process itself seems robotic.

3. Engagement Metrics as a Lizard Brain Hook

Creators who fail the Turing test may appear robotic because their content is optimized for engagement metrics, which tend to target the lowest common denominator of human experience. This often means appealing directly to our lizard brain, using tactics such as:

  • Sensationalism: Dramatic or shocking content captures immediate attention.
  • Gratification Loops: Quick bursts of pleasure (likes, shares, comments) reinforce repetitive behaviors.
  • FOMO (Fear of Missing Out): Triggering anxiety about missing trends or cultural conversations.

This kind of content, while passion-driven, thrives on simple stimuli that hijack basic, instinctual reactions rather than engaging deeper cognitive or emotional responses.

4. The Paradox of Passion

The passion seen in creators—those “robots with passion”—may not be a sign of intellectual creativity, but rather a primal energy directed towards gaining attention, influence, and validation. This type of passion doesn’t necessarily involve deeper reflection or innovation, but instead works as a powerful driver to appeal to the lizard brain of their audience, reinforcing repetitive content cycles.

In this sense, the creators’ passion is a kind of “energy without depth.” They are deeply invested in evoking strong reactions but in a way that often relies on primal emotions rather than nuanced, thought-provoking content. Their work may be repetitive or mechanical, but the emotional charge behind it is real—and, crucially, effective at tapping into the lizard brain.

5. Appealing to Algorithms and the Lizard Brain

Algorithms themselves could be seen as digital reflections of the lizard brain—they operate on a base level of simple, immediate reactions: more clicks, more engagement, more watch time. Creators, knowingly or unknowingly, optimize their content to feed these algorithms, which, in turn, appeal to the audience’s base instincts.

This creates a feedback loop:

  • Creators produce content optimized for primal reactions.
  • Algorithms boost content that triggers those reactions.
  • Audiences respond with instant gratification, feeding the cycle.

In this sense, creators who wouldn’t pass the Turing test are actually masters of lizard-brain engagement, making them valuable assets to platforms.

6. Lizard Brain as the Ultimate Creative Constraint

This focus on appealing to the lizard brain can be seen as the ultimate constraint on creativity. True creativity often involves depth, complexity, and novelty, which go beyond basic emotional responses. But in the commodified digital world, where platforms favor immediate emotional hooks, creators are limited by the need to appeal to our primal instincts.

This brings us back to the idea that true creativity may not be possible in a medium that is a simulacrum of the real world. If creators are locked into this endless cycle of appealing to the lizard brain, they become constrained by the platform’s demand for high engagement, low risk, and formulaic output. Their creativity is reduced to triggering basic emotional responses over and over, much like a machine performing a repetitive task.

Conclusion: Lizard Brain, Passion, and the Turing Test

When we view the passion of creators as an appeal to our lizard brain, it reframes the idea of “robots with passion.” These creators might seem robotic because their content is optimized for predictability and emotional triggers. Yet, their passion is real—it’s a drive to elicit primal reactions from an audience that craves instant gratification. In this sense, their content, while formulaic, is highly effective at engaging the lizard brain of the viewer, creating a powerful but shallow emotional connection.

Ultimately, creators who wouldn’t pass the Turing test may thrive in a digital ecosystem that rewards lizard-brain appeals. While this system limits true creativity, it allows for a different kind of passionate expression—one that is raw, repetitive, and designed to engage our most basic instincts.

The Creative Paradox: Robots with Passion

The irony of this system is that while creators operate in a robotic, repetitive way, their passion remains genuine. These “robots with passion” are deeply invested in their work, even if that work is constrained by the limits of a simulacrum. Their passion is not for pushing the boundaries of creativity but for capturing the attention of their audience, which often means appealing to the lowest common denominator of human experience: our lizard brain instincts.

This creates a paradox in the digital age. On one hand, platforms have become ecosystems where formulaic content thrives, and creativity is reduced to what can be replicated, scaled, and monetized. On the other hand, creators still exhibit real emotional energy, dedicating themselves to mastering the system and generating engagement. Their passion is real, but the medium in which they work—this simulacrum of reality—limits the expression of true, boundary-pushing creativity.

Conclusion: A Creativity Constrained by the Digital Simulacrum

In the world of social media platforms, creativity is simultaneously alive and stifled. Creators who wouldn’t pass the Turing test thrive by appealing to our lizard brain, using formulaic, predictable content to trigger instant emotional responses. Their passion, while real, is directed toward generating engagement rather than exploring new creative frontiers. Meanwhile, the medium itself—being a simulacrum of reality—limits true artistic expression by rewarding replication over innovation.

In this ecosystem, the boundary between human and machine becomes blurred. Creators operate like robots, following patterns optimized for engagement, yet their passion for their craft adds a layer of human emotion. They are, in a sense, “robots with passion”—caught between the mechanical demands of the platform and their own drive to create. True creativity, however, remains elusive in this simulacrum, as the digital world prioritizes the engagement of the lizard brain over the deeper complexities of human imagination.

Golems of the Ultramodern World

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Clickbait Colossus and Lord of the Sponsored Ad

Cracking open this grimoire, you plunge headfirst into the fetid underbelly of the information age. Here, amidst the flickering glow of a thousand screens, lurk the unliving titans – the Golems of the Ultramodern World. Not stitched from clay, but from the very detritus of the digital age, these lumbering monstrosities are testaments to our collective addiction and the insidious grip of the algorithm.

Selling Shovels to Miners is Always a Winning Strategy

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Scratchy black vinyl rasps a forgotten blues dirge as you stare into the roach-mottled motel mirror. Another gig economy hustle, another city bled dry. This time it’s pickaxes, not poems. Steel gleams under the flickering neon, each one a promise, a chimera – fortunes forged in the sweat of strangers or another dead end.

The miners, wired on hope and desperation, shuffle through your makeshift storefront, faces etched with a thousand broken dreams. They don’t see shovels, man. They see El Dorado at their fingertips, a shimmering mirage in the desert of their ambition. You push the polished chrome, the unyielding wood, each one a conduit to their fantasy.

A million info-hucksters crawl from the woodwork, greasy with self-help snake oil. “Content is king,” they screech, their voices hoarse from recycled motivational tapes. “Build your brand! Monetize your hustle!” They peddle courses on “How to Be a YouTube Guru in 12 Easy Steps” and “The 7 Secrets to Viral Tweets That’ll Make You a Millionaire.”

It’s a word virus, man, replicating faster than a Kardashian wardrobe change. The creators become the created, their dreams alchemized into clickbait headlines and SEO-stuffed blog posts. They chase the algorithms, slaves to the machine gods, pumping out content like hamsters on a digital wheel.

But the clink of coins in the metal bucket is a hollow symphony. These picks ain’t magic wands. They’re just tools, cogs in a machine that chews up dreams and spits out dust. You’re a cog too, a middleman in the marketplace of delusion. The real gold, it ain’t in the nuggets they scrape from the earth. It’s in the relentless hunger, the blind faith that keeps them digging even when the only treasure they find is another empty day.

Shovelin’ Dreams in the Gold Rush of Bullshit

Shovel. Steel serpent, chrome fang. Biting into the earth-flesh, unearthing the greasy gold-veins. Miners, gaunt cowboys of industry, hollow-eyed with the promise of nuggets. But who holds the pickaxe?

Not you, product. Not you. You clutch the shovel, the cold metal a familiar extension. A middleman in the gold rush, a ghost in the machine. They scramble for the dream metal, the miners, a million scratching, desperate fingers. But you,

You see the bigger picture, insectoid eyes peering from behind mirrored shades. The gold rush, a feeding frenzy, a million wallets fattening. Not with gold, no. With the coin of desperation, the clink of shovels against rock.

The gold gleams, a mirage in the heat-warped vision. But the real score ain’t in the diggin’, man. It’s in the sellin’ of the shovels. The shovel sellers. They scoff at the gold rush, seein’ the desperation in the miners’ eyes. They ain’t peddlin’ dreams, they’re peddlin’ tools. Tools that might, just might, pan a few flakes out of the content stream.

These cats, they understand the game. They sling analytics dashboards and engagement hacks, whispering secrets of virality in smoke-filled backrooms. They ain’t purveyors of passion, they’re architects of manipulation.

The creators, strung out on the dopamine drip of likes and shares, become their unwitting pawns. The system feeds on itself, a ouroboros of content creation, fuelled by the desperate scramble for attention.

And the shovel sellers? They watch it all unfold, cool and detached, counting their stacks of cold, hard cash. The gold rush might be a fool’s game, but sellin’ the picks and shovels? Now that’s a strategy with some legs.

You take a drag from your crumpled cigarette, the smoke curling into the greasy air. Maybe this ain’t selling shovels, maybe it’s selling hope. Bottled, diluted, with a money-back guarantee (satisfaction not included). A cruel joke, a neon sign in the wasteland, forever beckoning towards a horizon that never arrives.

The blues moan on, a soundtrack to this desolate ballet. 90% of the miners strike out, their dreams dissolving into dust motes dancing in the dying light. The other 10%? They might find a nugget, a fleeting glimmer of success. But even they’ll cough up blood and broken dreams in the end. This ain’t a winning strategy, man. It’s just the way the game is rigged.

But wait. A tremor. The gold dries up. The miners, hollow-eyed now with despair, their picks clattering uselessly. The market convulses, the beast coughs and sputters.

But the shovel? The shovel remains. A universal tool, a carrion crow circling the gold rush’s carcass. It digs not just for gold, but for roads, foundations, the bones of civilization itself.

The miners scatter, dreams broken. But you, you adapt, the serpent sheds its skin. The market hungers anew, a different glint in its eye. Crypto? Cannabis? The names flicker, a kaleidoscope of desires.

Shovel in hand, you stand amidst the wreckage, a grim reaper of industry. The gold rush may end, but the digging never does.

Cut-up. Rewind. Replay. The miners, the market, the dance of hunger. A million shoveled dreams, a symphony of clanging steel. You are the conductor, maestro of the endless dig.

Shovel. Not a pickaxe, not a golden nugget. But the cold, hard key to the kingdom of getting paid.

Deadbeats

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Deadbeats of the Soul: A Cut-Up Manifesto

They crawl out of the fetid alleys of existence, these word-slingers, these paint-drenched maniacs. Society calls them deadbeats, wasters, men and women with holes in their shoes and existential dread clinging to their trench coats like yesterday’s smog. But burrow deeper, past the pawn shop trinkets and ramen noodle stains, and you’ll find the raw, churning engine of creation.

The Curse of the Unmarketable:

They crawl out of the psychic gutter, these real ones, the unwashed darlings of the Moloched Muse. Forget your “creators,” your self-congratulatory Michelangelos. These are the word-bleeders, the canvas-convulsers, hacking out their visions in flickering neon dens.

Society, that bloated gasbag, wants to label them “deadbeats,” these tattered vessels of chaotic beauty. But the label sticks like a leech to a corpse, meaningless in the face of the hungry ghost that drives them. They are possessed, you see, by the Bleed.

The Bleed, a psychic hemorrhage from the raw underbelly of existence. It spills through them, a torrent of fractured visions and forbidden colors. They can’t not create, not spew this chaotic ichor onto any scrap of canvas, page, or flickering screen they can find.

Money? Ha! A laughable abstraction. They barter with scraps of meaning, fleeting moments of connection in the cold, digitized wasteland. Anerkennung, recognition? A fleeting chimera. Validation is a bullet they dodged long ago.

They are the fallout of a fractured world, the broken mirrors reflecting the grotesque reality corporations try to peddle. Their art? A scream into the void, a desperate attempt to find some semblance of order in the maelstrom.

So call them deadbeats, if you must. But know this: when the chrome flakes from the empire and the false gods come crashing down, their art will remain. Scrawled messages on the peeling walls of a burned-out world, a testament to the unbowed human spirit clawing for meaning in the face of oblivion.

Creator drips with Bourgeois Productivity

“Creator?” scoffs the jazz-soaked poet, smoke curling from a Lucky Strike dangling from his lips. “Creator? That’s for marketing whores who churn out pop pablum for the boob tube. We are alchemists, goddamn it! We traffic in stolen moments, slivers of eternity wrestled from the void. We translate the screams of the subconscious into a language that tears at the edges of sanity.”

They are not creators, these deadbeats of the soul. They are vessels, leaky faucets spewing forth the chaotic overflow of the universe. They are antennae trembling in the cosmic static, desperately trying to capture a shred of the ineffable.

For the true artist is not a creator, a sterile architect of pre-packaged realities. They are a conduit, a raw nerve ending exposed to the screaming void. They are the starvers, the bleeders, the uncalled – and their art, a testament to the beautiful, terrible truth.

The Bleed sputters a fax machine, spewing out a sheet of paper in a jittery stream

They dangle the carrot of “creator,” a title dripping with bourgeois productivity. But the true artist, the one who has glimpsed the writhing chaos behind the facade, knows better. Creation? A laughable illusion. We are not marionette masters, yanking order from the void. We are cockroaches scuttling across the linoleum of existence, picking at the fetid crumbs of the ineffable.

The Word flickers on a neon sign, distorting and bending

“Deadbeat” – now that has a certain ring to it. It captures the essence of existence, teetering on the tightrope strung between genius and madness. We are the unwashed, the unkempt, the ones who have seen too far behind the veil. We are the chronic voyeurs of the psychic gutter, transmuting the rancid effluvia of the subconscious into grotesque beauty.

The Flesh a grainy photograph develops in a chemical bath, revealing a distorted human form

Society, that bloated tick gorging on conformity, seeks to categorize, to label. “Creator” – a sterile term, fit for the assembly line drones who churn out milquetoast depictions of a reality they’ve never even smelled. We, the deadbeats, we traffic in the contraband nightmares, the psychic hemorrhages they dare not acknowledge. We are the bad touch in the sterilized supermarket of normality.

The Void a black hole sigil pulsates on a cracked mirror

So let them call us deadbeats. Let them scoff at our tattered clothes and bloodshot eyes. We wear our dishevelment like a badge of honor, a testament to our nightly wrestles with the howling demons from beyond the veil. For in the crucible of our deadbeat existence, we forge the raw, pulsating heart of true art, a grotesque hymn that echoes in the hollowness of their manufactured reality.

fax machine whirs to a stop, the paper sheet curling slightly at the edges