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First there is a yellow decision:to be bodyinstead of background. It spills onto the page like warm data,blocks of sun-colored maybe,and then the other colors arriveas unsupervised learning. Blue draws the first curve—a tentative spine,a highway for impulses,a question mark that forgotwhere to put its dot. Magenta crashes in after that,too loud, too honest,highlighter ink that escapedfrom a corporate workshopand decided to reinvent tenderness. Green shows up late,like the friend who always says,“Sorry, I just… read more – weiterlesen Algorithm for a Neon Embrace

Det börjar med ett ploff.Inte i leran, utan i färgen. En magentaklick landar på pappret,breder ut sig som en hemlighet utan skam,och plötsligt står den första grisen där:lång nos, mjuka öron,ben som inte riktigt hunnit bestämma sigom de vill gå eller flyta. Bakom den: blått.Ingen himmel, ingen sjö,bara blå tisdag, utspädd med vatten. Den andra grisen rullar in från sidan,som om någon just dragit bort gardinentill ett svinstall och hittaten pågående revolution i filtpennor. Hon… read more – weiterlesen Tre neongrisar och en blå tisdag

The pig arrives in fragments.First the nose, of course—two black commasarguing about a sentencethat hasn’t been written yet. Then the ears,two red exclamation marksbent by experience,listening in stereoto everything humans never sayabout what they eat. Only later comes the rest,poured in magenta and violet,like someone spilled a cocktailcalled Ethical Dilemmaover a sketchbook. Behind it all:a violet-blue sky,evening or maybe early morning,that exhausted time of daywhen the world forgetswhether it’s winding downor starting again. The outline… read more – weiterlesen Magenta Oink With Evening Sky

The pig does not sit in a meadow,does not balance on a corporate logo,does not fly. The pig is framed,matted in respectable beige,like a polite relativewho has absolutely notjust rooted through the trash of your unconscious. Inside the frameeverything is pencil-chaos:grey storms,orange flashes,magenta emergencies. Outside the framepure quiet paper.Border-control for scribbles. First came the line,nervous and caffeinated,looping around nothing in particular. Then the line tripped,snagged on a curve,and suddenly there was an ear,long and theatrical,half… read more – weiterlesen Field Notes from the Neon Snout

They meet in a corridorthat was originally painted as a backgroundand then got ideas. Now the colors have invited bodies,and the bodies have invited conversation,and the conversation has forgottenwhat it came here to say. Four figures, more or less: On the left,a person made of lavender static,bent forward like a question markthat refuses to end.Their outline twitches—every brushstroke a micro-decisionbetween staying and leaving. Next to them standsa tall turquoise-shouldered narratorwho never actually narrates anything.They lean… read more – weiterlesen Corridor of Half-Finished People

At first glancethis looks like a stained-glass windowfor a religion that worshipsdelay, overlap and “oops, I double-booked myself.” Thick black lines,heavy as underlined emails,slash across the pagein every forbidden direction. Between themcolor wedges push for space:magenta elbows green,yellow negotiates with turquoise,purple pretends to be philosophical,blue just wants a quiet cornerto think about the ocean in peace. Each triangle is convincedit is the main character. This is a city map,says the red stripe.You just have to… read more – weiterlesen Schedule of All The Lines That Crossed Today

Welcome to the caféwhere nothing sits straightand every chair has tenure. You enter through a blue rectanglemasquerading as a floor,already slightly tiltedtoward the nearest mistake. In the center:a red-backed chair,thick and stubborn,wearing a black outlinelike a heavy winter coat. It leans toward a yellow tablethat cannot decidewhether it is a table,a runway,or the preface to a manifesto. Above, black lines swarm—not beams, not cables,more like overcaffeinated thoughtstrying to hold the ceiling in place.They crisscross, intersect,… read more – weiterlesen Café of Misaligned Furniture

The city grew overnight,not from bricks,but from highlighters. Someone uncapped a magenta,a cyan, a suspiciously optimistic purple,and forgot to stop. Now we have this:a forest of rectangular exclamation marksstanding on a grey pavement,all shouting silently,all pretending to be serious architecture. The sky is baby-blue,which is suspicious,because nothing about these buildingssuggests innocence. Above them,a yellow sun-block of painthangs like a misfiled post-it,covering the part of the firmamentwhere the legal disclaimer usually goes. On the left,a lonely… read more – weiterlesen Vertical City for Lost Elevators

This is not a woman,this is a bookmark that escaped. She sneaks out of the novel at 03:07,puts on a turquoise thinking-cap,borrows a magenta sleeve from expressionismand sits down at the white table of Maybe. The book in front of heris only a rectangle of snow,no title, no page numbers,just a few black linesdoing yoga in the margins. She reads anyway. Every time her eyes move left to right,a tiny train of meaning tries to… read more – weiterlesen DADA READER WITH ELECTRIC HAT

It is a vertical sunrise,poured into a cylinder,yellow climbing the walls,turquoise pretending to be skyonly for those who look straight down. Around it:raspberry noise,fuchsia gossip,a wall of saturated silence.The table is a low green cloud,soft, overqualified,doing ground work for gravity. Inside the glassnothing movesand everything itched. Lines scratch their wayaround the rim,circling like thoughts in an elevatorthat refuses to choose a floor.Someone drew these lines once,but then they escaped,and now they scribble themselvesagain and againlike… read more – weiterlesen The glass wakes upin the middle of a red afternoon.