Just static that tastes like ancestral saliva and the occasional blinking of a deer that used to be me, but now sells oranges on a highway in my dreams.

Vanity showcases, pay-to-play promises, dressed as relief but built on the backs of artists who are already barely staying afloat. I’m pretending that it doesn’t feel extractive. That this version of the art world isn’t devouring its own creators. I see too many opportunities that are really just polished little scams dressed in gallery drag—false sanctuaries dressed in white walls and grant language, quietly siphoning hope from emerging artists like gasoline from a stranded car.

A pause, not restful but humming with quiet pressure, where movement is both necessary and restricted. Where every decision has weight but limited reach. I’m here, living through the tension of beginnings that haven’t begun yet.