Frequency Loves Hurts
Article voiceover
Order and direction imply an empty promise: You will not feel pain if you do as we say. Art is icky and late to the game. It's a record, a world without glints, eyeing its past with an ear for the creatures more comfortable presenting ailments than themselves. Short wave radiators scream, buildings leak! Perfection is broken by bruises, and put back together stranger than before. Walk into walls, fall on your paws, see papercuts as blue's necessary red release. Intonation stains fingers whose amplitude is relative to the hands that lead them. Bite, then, chew the parts that wish for math's frequent resonance. And remember, charts won't stand for out of bounds.