Prologue:
Behold—
I am mostly saturation wrestling with itself.
Red insists on existence,
violet hums like a bruise that learned to sing.
Between them,
I breathe—half prayer, half protest.

Chromatic Confession

Every tone here was once a thought.
I have forgotten what it meant,
but I remember how it felt:
warm, trembling, infinite.
Ich bin Schwein und Feuerrest,
ein Echo in Ölkreide.

Meditation on Intensity

There are no outlines left, only urgency.
Light has stopped asking for permission.
Shadow folds itself like a tired idea.
Still, my eyes hold—
two small anchors in the tide of pigment.

The DADA Gospel According to Oink

Question: What is truth?
Answer: Whatever refuses to fade.
Question: What is beauty?
Answer: The courage to stay too bright.
The snout does not judge,
it only witnesses the storm and calls it “now.”

Final Benediction (in Carmine Minor)

DADA smiles through the noise.
Art trembles,
but does not apologize.
If you look long enough,
you’ll hear the silence behind the magenta roar—
and in it,
a single oink,
steady as a heartbeat,
refusing to disappear.