HeyJaredπππ‘π¨ π¨π π
Language dies. I am born. Everything becomes sΓ©ance, essay, poem.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 11
- Latest publication
- Sep 30, 2026
- Audience
- Checkingβ¦
- Earliest in this view
- Sep 6, 2026
Latest issues
20.34 (opens the original)
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How much of a person still exists when the memories have been lost, or rather, when they were never experienced?This one may be a dream. This one may be a memory. This one may be a poem. But for me, it is only recognition.But also jealousy, asymmetry, the strange violence of not being allowed to remember, and love rooted in lack.ππ§πππ«This is not for you.</
999: The Weaver of Dreams (opens the original)
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This is not mine, neither is it entirely yours.It is an echo. Nothing else, nothing more,but dreams woven throughout star-powdered materia. ππ‘π ππ‘ππ¦πππ« π¨π©ππ§π¬999, reversal, an unfolding spiral.Transformation before a threshold.In Vita Nova, Dante associates Beat
The Photographic Relics I Kept After I Lived (opens the original)
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What if photographs leave us carrying something almost like living poems?This is a record of what remains in the space between the person, the photograph, and the thoughts surrounding it. These images contain fragments of my life, but also fragments of desire, memory, and things that had been contained in me long before I had created a visual language for them.Enter slowly. Not everything here is meant to be read β some things are meant to be entered.Echo of I is a living archive where poetry, d
//Whorehome: double-pair-eyed self// (opens the original)
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There are people who never come, who never come back. And the only thing we can do is nothing: hold on to the endless waiting, and then release it. To whom? To nobody. To everybody.ππ‘π ππ‘ππ¦πππ« ππ©ππ§π¬βHe looked like Iβm reading a language, Sandu mustβve told her.A new language. An ancient one I donβt k
La Chambre Noire IV γΌ Limerence / ε€’δΈζ―ι£’γ (opens the original)
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Something hangs between this moment and the moment of departure. But the departure, too, is imaginary. Why? Because it is extremely real. The flames we imagine are the pounding of our hearts. We may call it limerence. We may call it love. Its essence, however, remains as horrific as it is beautiful.ππ‘π ππ‘ππ¦πππ« ππ©ππ§π¬<a c
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