i am here for you always, you are not alone

magic internet money #194

die with the most likes

Rough, gritty hand-illustrated PFP-style project created by crow. Over 100 original drawings are mixed and combined to create 4,200 unique NFTs.

Flipper #14

mom would get us a sheet cake
at some point during the year
and it never celebrated anything in particular
simply appearing without ceremony
or decoration
and we ate in silence
never mentioning it didn’t have much flavor
anymore
or what we remembered when we were kids
but we would finish it
because her eyes suggested we should
and we weren’t sure how many more cakes there would be
so we ate
even though it brought relief instead of happiness
after the first piece
we’d hide pieces in the trash later in the week
telling her we’d eaten it
and it meant a lot to us
that she’d bought it for us
and sometimes she’d glance at the cupboard we kept the trash in
and cry
and we’d tell her it was full of memories instead of cake
which seemed to stop the crying for a bit
later we’d fall asleep to the whistling in the holes of the moon
and wonder when the next cake would appear

the things we used to eat by Diewiththemostlikes #10/15

fuck. pablo is meat now. everyone is rather sad about it. but he seems alright enough. as ground beef. 

ground beef pablo

We sat in the same chair dad did  
And tried to keep it warm the same way he did  
For the kids we’d never have  
Because the winters seemed colder  
Than they once did  
And the sun seemed to favor other towns  
Instead of ours  
And dad said the chair was the only thing he’d ever loved  
When he died  
But sometimes we found light elsewhere  
In screaming flesh  
Or wood and string 
Or the hook beckoning something to feed  
Or the destruction of will to leave  
Or dissolving self into inanimate objects  
Because the threads of the chair  
Needed our weight  
And our audience craved our failure  
Because both provisions were tradition  
Because someday we’d tell someone  
That we loved the chair too  
Even though we didn’t

A ballad for multiple pain

“negotiations with the abyss” is a story telling NFT if the story was huffing duster behind an abandoned Circuit City in Northern Indiana next to an orgy of alcoholic Auntie Anne's pretzel artists and the NFT was a gravitron constructed out of fortified wine at the county fair by a man streaming hardcore pornography and claiming he was once crucified for our sins. it is a revolution against our inevitable insect state and a reckoning with the aimless onslaught of reheated bathwater streaming from agape bot holes over the shit stained luxury sock rammed into our slackened consumption crevice. The only book built with the blood of scammers.  

[View Fullscreen](https://art.transientlabs.xyz/Negotiations_With_The_Abyss/NWTA.html)

negotiations with the abyss, vol. 1

A collection of items that slipped through the hands of the MOMA like a malnourished shit in the rarely visited gas station bathroom that requires a key duct-taped to a bronze bust of someone voted most likely to die alone consumed in regret to access. Take your chance at winning "right click legalize ground beef guy" or one of the not 70 million dollar failing MOMA PFPs.

MOMA Sack #58

**Ranked Auction runs from 6:30 PM EST-8:00 PM EST**

they’d play poker on Wednesday’s some weeks
and called it a tradition
even though it happened without regularity 
and it was mainly quietly sipping malt liquor from a garage refrigerator
and losing money and minds in unison
in a state of vague indifference
or maybe an eagerness to lose
so they could finally go home
though I never saw anyone leave
but I’d ask dad about the tradition 
and he’d say maybe someday I’d do the same
saying that losing with friends
was better than doing it alone
and I never asked about any alternative 
because there weren’t words for that
so I’d lay in bed as fall turned to winter
and listen to losing that sometimes didn’t sound like it
based of the laughter that hung in ethanol air 
and sometimes I’d try and recall that laughter
later in life
or the smell of burning corn or the sound of dying cicadas 
and I never could
I later asked dad if he remembered that laugh
and he said he didn’t
and I wondered if it were the insects laughing
at our game 
or the inevitability that some day soon
we’d rub our legs together too and wait for it to get cold so we could finally die

Dogs Playing Poker #2/8

Oil on canvas, digital sculpture made in virtual reality

Dos by Lucas Aguirre #9/10

Visual Detachment Vol. 2 presented by Fakewhale

i regret to inform you that john has turned to ground beef. rare. beef. but ground at that. so please do not disturb him or his beef pool. for it is somewhat rotting. though he appears happy in this state.

ground beef john

paying homage to the meat managers whose trembling hands hoist my flaccid corpse into the polluted sky on a daily basis. 

diewithethemostlikes ponderosa meat managers

“negotiations with the abyss,” is a story telling NFT if the story was huffing duster behind an abandoned Circuit City in Northern Indiana next to an orgy of alcoholic Auntie Anne’s pretzel artists and the NFT was a gravitron constructed out of fortified wine at the county fair by a man streaming hardcore pornography and claiming he was once crucified for our sins. it is a revolution against our inevitable insect state and a reckoning with the aimless onslaught of reheated bathwater streaming from agape bot holes over the shit stained luxury sock rammed into our slackened consumption crevice.  

it douses the corpse of our perpetual transactional state in gasoline and rains burning flesh into the eyes of parasites and grifters and fiends eager for another prolapsed k-hole to devour. 

our inbox functioning as the lifeless sex doll for bots to suck and fuck. our sanity providing the lubrication for their thrusting. 

“negotiations with the abyss,” was created as a mechanism for destruct

negotiations with the abyss

MOMA Sack #10

a bag if meat found in the upper deck of a toilet at the MOMA. filled the same time the glory hole is filled. next to the arby's sculpture of larry the cable guy. and the retention pond full of fuckable malt liquor popcorn tins. create nothing. consume everything. 

not the MOMA bag of meat and other carnal desires, sponsored by TJ MAXXX

Dogs Playing Poker #3/8

we are the skin tags on the sagging ass of humanity

A good harvest. A name chosen by management to instill a sense of calm in those of us required to compartmentalize every moment of productivity or inactivity during the day. It is a mechanism for us to think about colorful gourds and hot apple cider instead of leaving. A word that suggests motion or change or bounty, but we all knew the seasons never changed under our fluorescent lights and there was very little to be taken from our tainted farmlands.


They announce the new system, requirements and processes through a high importance email. It settles like fertilizer amongst our soft skulls and sunken eyes. The white noise machines provide an ideal environment for the weed to grow, for unquestioning compliance to wrap its vines around our arms and legs. We allow its dull sickle to collect time from our dwindling lot because there is nothing else to do.

Our fingers rest limply on our keyboards, eager to fill another barrow for management to scrutinize, consume and evacuate. We want to prove our value, to prove there is still something to take. We want to appear fruitful, vital, and still capable of being depleted. We receive a modest paycheck in exchange for the pillaging and perpetually yearn for the next reaping.  

The program rakes and toils away at our skin and minds like a dutiful farmer prepping his land. Extracting the flesh it deems ripe, pulling at detaching retinas as though it were picking unblemished apples. It attaches us to oxen plows and drags us through gravel, depositing more of our blood into the land. We in turn click and type, submitting reports of little consequence and taking contrived pride of our pathetic contribution.

Nothing is replenished, nothing is replanted.

We are a single use farm, providing what we can until eventually being recycled into soil for the decorative plastic plants strewn about the office. One day we’ll die in our ergonomically correct desk chairs, our legacy contained in the numbers we enter into the screen.
  
A new crop will be planted soon, whoever those people are will also be harvested and I hope their sacrifice is enough.

a good harvest

I sit at a bar with dried leaf walls
And high life that tastes like light bulb
a fiendish looking old man with liver spots that look like rusted metal
tells me that dying is only slightly more inconvenient than living
chuckling through a freshly packed lip of stained glass
I piss into a trough and watch the ice melt
I sit at a desk and oblige a similar stream

I hoped I’d win enough tickets to save our marriage or leave it
Or a fish in a bag
Or a fuckable commemorative candle
Maybe we’d be happy then
Maybe we’d do what they couldn’t

For now, we succumb to the weight of destruction in the air
And hope that our consciousness dwindles in unison with the sanity of the old man
Or the dull glow of neglected machines
Responsible for our salvation  

we saved our marriage

Legalize Ground Beef

definitely not a meme. fully fuckable too as I understand it. though never have seen someone fuck a JPEG. musta fallen off the deep fake 6529/Chris Gaines segway tour of Circuit City. gimme 1 book for this and I’ll throw in a complimentary scoop from the communal vaseline jar.

sieze the meats of production #2

welcome to the shiddy flea market. built overnight by the weary hands of lifetime alcoholics.  seemingly appearing when you least need it. and disappearing when you most. watch a prized hog get slaughtered to provide hope. or ride the gravitron to save your marriage. or eat a deep friend wine ball and hope the zipper evacuates a lifetime of regret into the mud where two people 69. our climax is seeing our reflection in the runny eggs at a dennys in northern indiana. exist to transact. create nothing. consume everything. 

you look thirsty pardner. haven’t had water here in years. but i have this can of carbonated meat. that looks like everything and nothing. you can drink it if yah want, has to be via suppository. because it’s better than feeling a lifetime of regret crawling down your throat. 4 books and yer gonna find salvation.

meat water

county fair shiddy prizes

Dad took us to his favorite highway attraction once a year
He told us it was the reason he had us at all
And we weren’t sure what he meant by that
But he was happy
Staring at a pile of rancid meat
Impregnating the grass it flaccidly laid on in a neglected median
He’d point to the flies and say they reminded him of his dad
Or laugh at particularly oxidized pieces
Or cry if the weather were just right
And sometimes buy souvenirs from a man
Dying of alcoholism who didn’t seem to have any affiliation with the meat itself
But dutifully stood at the rotting altar we chose to worship at

We’d laugh along with him
Or cry depending on if we had tears to give
Because the rest of the year was silence
And the noises stirred the flies
And their shit covered legs helped us sleep

He’d add a few quarters in a rusted can
And say it was a preservation fund
Though the mound seemed to shrink every year
And dad seemed to know it
That despite his donation that was never collected
What he loved most
Was losing

We wondered why he didn’t do more
But didn’t ask
Because we knew he didn’t have more to give

We eventually got busy
And stopped going

And dad never really talked about that time in our lives
When he passed
We went to that median
And the meat was gone
And we liked to think he brought it with him
But knew he would have wanted it to stay
In the highway median

the year dad died

we couldn’t see most things
anymore
but it didn’t matter too much
our purpose was obligation 
our eyes, dimming lanterns
broadcasting morse code to hibernating insects that would never wake 
and illuminating flattened dune grass
on a worn path to
the bust
of an indifferent sea
drowning 
was preferred
to our listless wading
but we refused to sink
into the rot below 
containing things consumed from shore
and the bones of our failed marriage 

and in that refusal, existed in a state
of perpetual loss
smoothed by the teeth of restless water

we suffered then like we suffered now
though the dullness of its delivery 
often slid into our stomachs
unencumbered 
without resistance or consideration 

buoyancy for our flesh that only sought sand

exploding shapes were better than sunsets anyhow


we still felt

SuperRare

A creature whose modest dreams are listlessly huffed and spewed into the already polluted air of the city. Its lungs cling to the shit flavored vaporizer juice bought from the local petting zoo, sourced from the dying goats. It wears a class ring from a school it never attended, its fingers too plump to change. Skin tags hang from its loose flesh, attempting to escape the miserable body they're trapped in. 

It is one of five total butthole gods that exist in your hometown.

butthole from your hometown #2

POV: your outlook inbox on a Monday in February as you realize you'll die under the fluorescent lights that keep the fake plants alive in your office. you'll briefly consider leaving, but resume your daily misery to hit a deadline that doesn't exist for a project that doesn't matter. you'll receive emails from people you don't recognize and add more Xanax to your coffee. merge with your ergonomically correct desk chair.  dismiss everything you ever knew. abandon your dreams. 

Microsoft Office Eternal Suffering

Foundation

An interpretation of the Decal by die with the most likes. A symbol of permissionless creativity. Series Nineteen.

Decal by die with the most likes #60

An interpretation of the Decal by die with the most likes. A symbol of permissionless creativity. Series Nineteen.


Decal by die with the most likes #92

Decal by die with the most likes

Election day was his favorite day, though it sometimes spanned days or even months. The boy had never experienced the electoral college or a voting process with multiple polling places spanning across every state. Pundits with no particular credentials or education had called it the great streamlining of modern democracy on varying indistinguishable television shows. They sipped their thermoses of decaf Monster Energy and laughed at each other's jokes until their veneers fell out and their tonsils bled and sometimes their eyes rolled back momentarily before resetting to a familiar distant stare that suggested ambiguous intentions.

No one was quite sure where the new election process was born, but historians pointed back to episode 243 of America’s Got Talent when an alcoholic ostrich farmer dressed in a tuxedo woven by spiders overdosed on prescription hard boiled eggs and got a standing ovation from the judges and the audience. After the doctors injected his heart with adrenaline to revive him, he grabbed the microphone and predicted a future where the entire country descended on a single town to determine the next president. He died moments after and received another standing ovation, though he didn’t end up winning the season. The winner of that particular season went to a man who had his arms replaced by chainsaws and did magic tricks on a flaming dirt bike...

big! election! day!

that’s the bench dad sat at when he could  
by the zoo without animals  
and the stage no one ever played  
and the grills that never fed anyone  
and the power lines where people sometimes lost their hair  
but he didn’t seem to mind  
the feel of the softening wood  
or the smell of burning ethanol  
or the absence that impregnated the unmoving air on hot days 
because sometimes the cicadas sang  
and if you breathed hard enough  
you could feel their hum in your lungs  
that didn’t seem to breath by themselves anymore  
or inherit the same songs they used to  
and he’d say if you listened close enough  
you could learn a lot about yourself  
and your purpose  
in the contraction of insect membranes  
or the leaves on the trees that seemed to scream with the dying broods  
and I never really knew what he meant by that  
but I’d sit on that bench a lot after he was gone  
and wonder when the mold would finally eat through the wood  
or if there were ever any animals in the zoo

after the cicadas stopped singing

exist to submit

some days  
we noticed the fingers  
that rested on our arms and legs

taking what they could  
in the little movement they were still afforded

collecting pieces under nails and in wrinkles  
celebrating their mechanical pageant of accumulation

stuffing themselves sick to remember  
what would eventually be lost  
when the grates finally failed

or the lecherous tongue finally rupturing 
the bottom of a brown paper bag  
filled with discount memories

other days we didn’t notice at all  
and wondered if they’d stopped their dance  
their digging  
their packing and shipping  
the plastic wrap and stickers  
used to sell rot

or maybe they’d grown tired of the things  
they’d gathered

or maybe there wasn’t much left  
to remember anyway

yesterday's spit

is what I told you  
to dry our pillows  
once in February

because the moisture that once made our eyes heavy, now saturated the cloth womb 
responsible for our momentary reprieve 
because unmoving quilts were favorable to the cold investing our bedroom

because you needed it  
even though it wasn’t much 
a collapsed vein  
to a neglected limb 

because the deviation had become too great 
because the bones still stood 
where they once did  
left without opportunity for abandonment 
 
even though everything else had quit 

we no longer laughed at the blood flowing from your fingertips 
even though it didn’t flow much anymore anyway 

imagination always evolves to obligation 
love always evolves to complacency 

some mornings you seemed like you  
but the eerie facade 
became apparent 
as the sand fell from our eyes 

and all we wanted was the stagnation we sought to avoid 

and we both would look at the ceiling 
wondering when the cold would stop  
being so cold

you were once you

A BALLAD FOR MULTIPLE PAIN

Die with the most likes X Panter Xhita

our consciousness as humans can be distilled into a crudely fashioned hole at an abandoned dave & busters and the meditative state that is endured while sitting on a neglected toilet praying for the sound of disrupted waters. glory holes embody anonymity and pleasure for pleasure's sake. they are creations that cannot be destroyed, as they exist in the memories of anyone who uses or witnesses. many speculate that the carving of the hole is the purest form of human ingenuity and the desire to explore the unknown. formerly limited to the physical space. these glory holes transcend space and time. and exist in that same unknown that tempts us all. legalize ground beef. create nothing. consume everything.

HUGE thank you to @PureSpider for the layered PNG template, this dream would not have been realized without you friend.


glory hole$ #693

glory hole$ #550

glory hole$

culture and community are not an organic occurrence. they are painstakingly constructed in a wholly sterile lab that suffocates sickening spontaneity or reprehensible natural evolution. in this lab, there exists true beauty, without the perversion of free thinking or differing perspectives. interests are dictated by gloved hands and surgical masks. flesh is pulverized into optimal packaging. and mouths are opened with car jacks for optimal penetration.

that’s why we here at Fxck Kulture Labz (a partner of Meatverse) are creating a one of a kind, grassroots, visionary project that euthanizes the need to think before consumption and destroys everything that came before. we’ve rented out a mall kiosk that used to sell metal dragons holding orbs and shrimp deveiners shaped like medieval hernia belts and have transformed it into a one stop shop for factory farmed revolutionary art that is perfect top soil for more genetically modified celebrities and brands to spawn from. because we at Fxck Kulture LaBz believe that creation is simply a pointless product of consumption and what you put in will never come back out.

each celebrity has been hand crafted for ideal cultural impact, with varying deformities, goiters and impacted hairs grown thoughtfully from the medical waste of other celebrities who are also desperate for another insufferable attention grab. they’ve sacrificed themselves for you. because you didn’t have what it took to build something. so do what you need to do. for them. by buying their deformed, barely sentient heads to worship at. it would really make them feel better. and there’s nothing worse than an upset genetically modified celebrity and brand collaboration corpse.

feed them. grow them. wonder if this means anything at all. drink from the never ending drain of reheated influencer bath water. die with the most likes.

thank you @purespider for the code!

big! fucking shiddy! celebrity cash grab! #145

big! fucking shiddy! celebrity cash grab! #443

big! fucking shiddy! celebrity cash grab!

meat manager's special, discount gristle forward meat web. considered inedible by some and fuckable by others and worshiped by others. it is a shining meat beacon broadcasting the absurdity of our existence.

beef number one

we assumed a ring bought from the television that propelled our love for the last decade would heat the foil containing the remnants of the tar that would keep us sucking and fucking in our parasite circle. so long as there was flesh in our mouths or prescription in our stomach, we couldn’t tell how much we’d grown to hate each other. the saliva lubricated the last morsels of dwindling remote affection. maybe most animals prefer to die for the sake of a failing relationship. maybe bleeding out in a warehouse in Northern Indiana before having their brief existence commemorated in a celebrity endorsed ring collection was a greater achievement than dying in a field somewhere. i couldnt really tell. sometimes the field seemed alright to me. the ring spoiled after a few days and i bought another one because the debt gave us purpose and the rot gave us something to talk about besides our own failing bodies. we’d die without much love left. but for now. we talked about the marbling of the ring. and hoped some day we’d be endorsed by a celebrity. 

beef number four

8BIDOU

fill your collapsed lungs with nothingness. frantically breath in digital waste. die doing what you love.

consume your adoration thirteen

to staunch plummeting ratings. joy behar has turned to ground beef live on air. and conducted an interview about a new celebrity couple. but it kinda just sounded like wet beef exhaling. anyway. she is not to be touched. because she is beef. and still needs to host a show that no one really watches. 

ground beef joy behar

Hic et Nunc

a putrid fleshlight. bought in the impulse aisle at an abandoned sex store. it contains no worth. though it is inanimate it is also a coward. it is machine washable. but never washed. it will eventually fulfill its destiny of  being cast into a polluted river and used as an egg sack for the yearly carp run. 

All proceeds from the sale go directly to Ukraine humanitarian efforts. What is being done is absolutely and utterly vile. Peace for Ukraine. End to war.    

fuck em

a collection of one unusuable fleshlight. an impotent coward's legacy distilled into a machine washable fuck hole.

fuck him

fredenza krueger #1/9

the only way to consume art is involuntarily, with a tire jack and a fucking snow shovel. like glass shards limply shredding your gums from a week old dip lip. 

thoughts and tastes eroding into indifference like urinal cakes under a dehydrated piss stream at a newly opened fuckable arcade bar. art should be smothered in a lubricated glaze like an airport Cinnabon and slid into agape holes without thought or consideration. collapsing like aortas in an obscenely overstuffed chair to the sound of a monster truck jamboree sponsored by o’reilly auto-parts. 

passive absorption is key. that’s why we’ve painstakingly ground a fuck ton of indiscerinble animal parts and gas station sex pills into a wholly digestible and fully flavorless suppository paste. built to euthanize feeling or connection, filling holes for the sake of filling. randomized and piledrived so you don’t have to think. 

these chub packs are packed to the brim with art that you’ll cherish forever or evacuate with yesterday’s

sbarros garlic slipknot by diewiththemostlikes

sbarros garlic slipknot #4/9

chub pack by diewiththemostlikes

there is no abstract.  or figurative. or method. or revolution. or artists or collectors for that matter. and most of what we make or acquire will be mercifully forgotten in the puncture holes distributed by dull bayonets from a war that was never fought. buried in a sea of premium pornography or suffocated by the listless novacaine drip leaking from an unhealing hang nail. but there is meat. and flies.  there is always meat. there is that. and flies that satisfy their carnal urges in the pulverized existence of a beast born to bleed and feed.  these strokes document the joyful moments in the slaughterhouse. the routine passings.  the hooves and snouts and skin and bones and cherished memories becoming mere runoff sweat into the drains to lubricate the purposeless gears again. there is comfort in creation, even if its destruction. one more round is needed. one final churn. until the next one.  there is happiness in meat. there is that

Beef Brothko #156

there is no abstract. or figurative. or method. or revolution. or artists or collectors for that matter. and most of what we make or acquire will be mercifully forgotten in the puncture holes distributed by dull bayonets from a war that was never fought. buried in a sea of premium pornography or suffocated by the listless novocaine drip leaking from an unhealing hangnail. but there is meat. and flies. there is always meat. there is that. and the flies that satisfy their carnal urges in the pulverized existence of a beast born to feed and bleed. these strokes document the joyful moments in the slaughterhouse. the routine passings. the hooves and snouts and skin and bones and cherished memories becoming mere runoff. swept into the drains to lubricate the purposeless gears again. there is comfort in creation, even if it is destruction. 

one more round. is needed. one final churn. until the next one.   

there is happiness in meat. there is that. 

Beef Brothko #450

beef brothko

there are no humane butchers. only machetes and flesh. and exploding arteries. and more things to carve. and more excess. excess is key. to anything. worthwhile. feeding without hunger. simply obliging by the agape mouth. and the call of the hole.

fully fuckable marketplace

cash4gold marketplace

there was no war. and no army. and nothing worth fighting for. just an broken coin operated horse in front of a liquidating party supplies store in northern indiana. and the person atop that horse. celebrating nothing in particular.

dollar general

the unbearable stench of eternal decay

the rise and fall #1

the rise and fall #8

the rise and fall

we turned the lever to remember
or to forget
depending on the day
sometimes achieving neither outcome
simply watching threads
drift aimlessly into a bowl
where others climaxed too
a generation lost
in fists
and lubricant
and unmoving water

Die with the most mmERCH

As we transact, during our most meaningful on chain moments, you will receive a receipt. A keepsake to remember our beautiful time together. For those visionaries bold enough to mint, or courageous enough to claim their physical, you'll receive something quite special. An edition, created especially for mmERCH by an artist we very much believe in. Each year we will invite a new artist, and who knows maybe these receipts won't just look good...they might even do something too.

Here sits an unusually round cul-de-sac. It exists in no city or country in particular, sometimes occupying several places at once. It inherits an excruciating omnipresence, feeding from those who choose to submit to its unblemished façade. Some say it is the most circular object to ever exist, others argue that one cannot determine the exact roundness of any given cul-de-sac. Some residents have just arrived, maintaining their beautiful warts and scars; others have lived here for thousands of years. In the end, they will all be as smooth and lifeless as the asphalt that carries the burden of mid-size sedans and other senseless consumer goods.
The longtime residents of the characterless houses surrounding the freshly paved half-moon celebrate the absence of edges or other peculiarities. They have already been ground to gray matter and reshaped into something vaguely human. Their peaks and valleys melted into oblivion, an indeterminable beige paste used to build more luxury houses. Several windows open, giving a glimpse into the most unbearable mundanity imaginable and the brutal carving of skin that would eventually smooth every crevice remaining.

Around Again

Here sits an unusually round cul-de-sac. It exists in no city or country in particular, sometimes occupying several places at once. It inherits an excruciating omnipresence, feeding from those who choose to submit to its unblemished façade. Some say it is the most circular object to ever exist, others argue that one cannot determine the exact roundness of any given cul-de-sac. Some residents have just arrived, maintaining their beautiful warts and scars; others have lived here for thousands of years. In the end, they will all be as smooth and lifeless as the asphalt that carries the burden of mid-size sedans and other senseless consumer goods.

The longtime residents of the characterless houses surrounding the freshly paved half-moon celebrate the absence of edges or other peculiarities. They have already been ground to gray matter and reshaped into something vaguely human.

nameless dread is our shared digital suffering. meetings that have no start or end. colleagues without bone or feature. routine dismantlings. a camera lens and its scalpel. and the memories lost in its unending carve. 

&nbsp;

one more day to achieve productivity salvation. one more year to win a grand prize. one more sheet cake to celebrate detaching retinas. the lips and holes of a generation limply leaking from the casing of an animal we never knew. 

&nbsp;

what is legacy? who deserves to be remembered? is it better to feel your own demise or quietly bleed into the polyester of a desk chair until there’s nothing left? what things are lost in our state of perpetual transaction? what are we euthanizing to vaguely live? is there comfort in that destruction? is our core self diluting into something unrecognizable in the psychotic penetration of tongues to eardrums or bleeding fingers to screens? is there relief in submission? 

&nbsp;

INSPIRATION

&nbsp;

heavily inspired by a decade of producing digital waste no one wanted or asked for. the color palettes are muted as colleagues lose vibrancy and elasticity in a state of absent production. sparse paint strokes function as bandages desperately attempting to hold skin together that seeks no bandage and is unaware of the wounds it carries. lines are what remains. waiting patiently to be paved over. under the illusion of happiness.

&nbsp;

TECHNICAL COMPOSITION & CONCEPT

&nbsp;

it had to be generative. because there’s comedy in its generative nature. we’re prescribed vague digital suffering daily. and this project is no different. you exist in the nameless dread it chooses you to exist in. a meeting that never ends. with people you wish you had never met. engaged in insect toil that in the end will be forgotten. 

&nbsp;

to further indulge in that toil, the employees that sit as the focal point of each meeting container were hand illustrated. a several hundred hour burden that provides a level of unblemished human suffering unreplicable by machine. 

&nbsp;

this project demands the collector exist in its suffocating coils as they pour from the hole we worship at daily. 

&nbsp;

working with someone as gifted as sydney parks to fully realize the pain the code could inflict was vital. every iteration was an escalation. every realization of silhouette or background another level of rot. or in some cases false salvation. she explored and amplified every crevice of this depraved meeting. she is not only a coding mastermind but a visionary with a nuanced understanding of building the impossible. 

&nbsp;

INTERACTIVITY

&nbsp;

everything is clickable. everything is fuckable. the lives of those forced to endure the never ending meeting are mere reflections of our own inconsequence. 

&nbsp;

press the ‘m’ key on your keyboard to download a gif of your output.

nameless dread #94

nameless dread #372

nameless dread by diewiththemostlikes

bloated organs are harvested and exchanged for empty adoration. the perpetual reaping and subsequent feast leave neither in the consumption orgy satisfied. simply indulging in a transnational exchange of fluids and skin for a merciful lapse in an otherwise insufferable existence. sacrificing for an indifferent god slowly succumbing to dementia. our legacies penetrate clouds and pollute skies. our legacies melt with the rings of failed marriages at cash for gold exchanges. our purpose is creation for the sake of consumption.

engagement farm

The good meeting had no start and finish. It simply was. Or at least for several thousand years in both directions of time. Participants, some willing some not, discussed matters of diminishing importance until exhaustion, thoroughly indulging dead ends, routinely replacing drool tins, and flogging themselves until ecstasy. Though some fantasized about someday leaving, they knew they wouldn’t, physically or mentally incapable—or perhaps merely settling.

I catered the meeting sometimes. Sometimes not. 

A flavorless accumulation of indiscernible memories poured freely from a wound that refused to heal and I cherished its negligible contribution to the decaying table, already bloated with inconsequence and sometimes laughed at the scab and its pathetic desire to mend such a relentless hole. 

I hoped the offering would moisten the lips of self-proclaimed gods who would eventually die without notice in their favorite easy chairs. Though as far as I knew, the ceremony existed for no one in particular, simply fueling a flaccid and eternal exchange of fluid.    

Sometimes they ate. Most times, they sat motionless, seemingly watching the life-giving spool of flesh impregnate the wrinkles in the wood. 

I hoped the blood stains on the table would remain when the meeting concluded. But I knew the meeting wouldn’t end, and I could already see the mahogany consuming what was left of my legacy.

the good meeting

KnownOrigin

nameless dread is our shared digital suffering. meetings that have no start or end. colleagues without bone or feature. routine dismantlings. a camera lens and its scalpel. and the memories lost in its unending carve.

one more day to achieve productivity salvation. one more year to win a grand prize. one more sheet cake to celebrate detaching retinas. the lips and holes of a generation limply leaking from the casing of an animal we never knew.

what is legacy? who deserves to be remembered? is it better to feel your own demise or quietly bleed into the polyester of a desk chair until there’s nothing left? what things are lost in our state of perpetual transaction? what are we euthanizing to vaguely live? is there comfort in that destruction? is our core self diluting into something unrecognizable in the psychotic penetration of tongues to eardrums or bleeding fingers to screens? is there relief in submission?

INSPIRATION

heavily inspired by a decade of producing digital waste no one wanted or asked for. the color palettes are muted as colleagues lose vibrancy and elasticity in a state of absent production. sparse paint strokes function as bandages desperately attempting to hold skin together that seeks no bandage and is unaware of the wounds it carries. lines are what remains. waiting patiently to be paved over. under the illusion of happiness.

TECHNICAL COMPOSITION & CONCEPT

it had to be generative. because there’s comedy in its generative nature. we’re prescribed vague digital suffering daily. and this project is no different. you exist in the nameless dread it chooses you to exist in. a meeting that never ends. with people you wish you had never met. engaged in insect toil that in the end will be forgotten.

to further indulge in that toil, the employees that sit as the focal point of each meeting container were hand illustrated. a several hundred hour burden that provides a level of unblemished human suffering unreplicable by machine.

this project demands the collector exist in its suffocating coils as they pour from the hole we worship at daily.

working with someone as gifted as sydney parks to fully realize the pain the code could inflict was vital. every iteration was an escalation. every realization of silhouette or background another level of rot. or in some cases false salvation. she explored and amplified every crevice of this depraved meeting. she is not only a coding mastermind but a visionary with a nuanced understanding of building the impossible.

INTERACTIVITY

everything is clickable. everything is fuckable. the lives of those forced to endure the never ending meeting are mere reflections of our own inconsequence.

press the ‘m’ key on your keyboard to download a gif of your output

die with the most likes (diewiththemostlikes)

die with the most likes (diewiththemostlikes)

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