it gets worse.

I spent the summer harvesting fireflies in an old jar of pace salsa later placing it on top of a tower of surveillance cameras their attempt to find love in a glass prison powered the lenses that watched people fuck or kill or huff things from old flags when the summer was over the jar went dark but people still fucked or killed or huffed despite the absence of glow

this holiday season, make sure to gift your loved ones something that will render them physically ill and questioning your sanity. pulverize them into shattered ornaments meant to maim a drunken thief. cherish the awkward silence that accompanies a confusing, unfit gift.

holy shit made it to marfa. conducting a solo mosh pit again then taking a bird scooter to terlingua to start a plato's closet franchise where I can sell my art on crotchless ed hardy jock straps and aeropostale gag balls. this is the future of digital art.

good meat.

teach a man to fly a car, stock price go up. teach a man to fuck a car, the world is yours.

making art in a state of absent appeasement is no different than creating a powerpoint presentation under the undying glow of fluorescent lights in an office building that is quietly devouring your insides. actually it might be worse.