Can they speak for themselves
Or do they have wires on their mouths?
These are my scary little thoughts
Rolling around my head.
I don’t mean to offend.
I’m so in love
It makes me sick.
Hurt, hurt,
Nauseating hurt.
The machine devours human hearts,
expels commodities
for thoughtless masses.
The male genius
a fucking hypocrite.
Superflat affectation.
The woman artist
Perpetually
THE OTHER.
Our voice,
What fucking Voice?
Moral: “When Art  becomes a mass produced nonentity, It’s the end for all creative cognition amongst humanity”
$$$$
Advertisements