TITLE_NAME :
09/04/2025 - 11/17/2025
Office Impart
As a kid, I fever-dreamed too often. I wasn't in my bed but underground, dark, warm, damp, my limbs unraveling into a long, tangle of strings growing through a tunnel made of humming light. I could taste the hum of the cartoons with my fingers; it tasted like putting your tongue on a sour battery.
CROSSLUCID had made my dream literal—or perhaps I never woke.
The Way of Flowers sprawls before me like a hallucination of late capitalism finally eating its own tail, birthing something beautiful and monstrous: a garden where generative code photosynthesizes and collective devotion blossoms into literal biomes. The "seeds" pulse with impossible life—neither plant nor code, but a fusion that renders the distinction obsolete.
Office Impart
As a kid, I fever-dreamed too often. I wasn't in my bed but underground, dark, warm, damp, my limbs unraveling into a long, tangle of strings growing through a tunnel made of humming light. I could taste the hum of the cartoons with my fingers; it tasted like putting your tongue on a sour battery.
CROSSLUCID had made my dream literal—or perhaps I never woke.
The Way of Flowers sprawls before me like a hallucination of late capitalism finally eating its own tail, birthing something beautiful and monstrous: a garden where generative code photosynthesizes and collective devotion blossoms into literal biomes. The "seeds" pulse with impossible life—neither plant nor code, but a fusion that renders the distinction obsolete.