i was told that i was an english prodigy all my life. bound to my writing ability- it was my only skill. it's i had. because you can't do everything, that defeats the purpose of this society. you must specialize, but it's on you if no one values your craft- your art.

 

bound to a life of deprivation and false gratification; division only unites the desperate. 

​

there's such a societal urge to specialize, as we're pressured growing up to hone a skill and commit to it; for that is the only way to make money and survive. however, i'm like sylvia plath, where i see my life branching out in front of me like a fig tree, but i can't just watch each fruit rot; i have an inescapable urge to sink my teeth into each fruit's meaty flesh, eviscerating my body with passion and lust for the deliciously unknown.

​

help me evaluate myself and my desires. i must know what it feels like to do everything- even if it leaves me with absolutely nothing at all.

​

join me on my mission to connect the societally unconnectable.

​

we're so glad to have you here, you won't regret it.