Photoshop-ed purple collage of wormholes. Each is multiplied on top of the other, spreading out across the canvas in a flurry of color.

The atomic wind catches your wings and you are propelled backwards into the future, an entity time traveling through the late C20th, a space case, an alien angel maybe, looking down the deep throat of a million catastrophes.

An old-fashioned box television, filtered blue and turned off. An old-fashioned box television, filtered blue - now turned on.

screenflash of a millionmillion conscious machines
burns brilliant
users caught in the static blitz of carrier fire
unseeing the download that scribbles on their burntout retinas
seize in postreal epileptic bliss
eat code and die

Sucked in
down through
a vortex of banality


A Microsoft warning alert which reads: 'You have just missed the twentieth century. You are on the brink of the millennium - which one.' The button on the bottom of the alert reads 'does it matter?'

It’s the cross dissolve that’s captivating. The hot contagion of millenia fever fuses retro with FUTRO, catapulting bodies with organs into technotopia…where code dictates pleasure and satisfies desire.


Pretty pretty applets adorn my throat. I am strings of binary. I am pure artifice. Read only my memories. Upload me into your pornographic imagination. Write me.

Identity explodes in multiple morphings and infiltrates the system at root.

Brightly dyed neon collage of partygoers, specifically from photographs taken of ravers in the 1990s. Two girls hold focus: one in the center stares down the camera. The other rests in the bottom right corner of the image, arms up in the air as she dances. Both seem entranced by music and atmosphere. The entire image is obsecured by an overlay of binary code.
A tower of purple television screens, some short-circuiting. Some display security footage from around the world: The Netherlands, Korea, America.

Unnameable parts of no whole short circuit the code recognition programs flipping surveillance agents into hyperdrive which spew out millions of bits of corrupt data as they seize in fits of schizophrenic panic and trip on terror.


A wide shot overlooking a liminal lake, fog hangs low on the water. A group of pink deer stand, both on the edge and along the rim of the water, staring down the viewer. A singular pink deer, emergent from the photograph, hestitates at its border. It watches you as its brothers do.

So what’s the new millennium got to offer the dirty modemless masses? Ubiquitous fresh water?

Simulation has limits.

Are the artists of oppressed nations on a parallel agenda? Perhaps it’s just natural selection?


The final pink, eerie deer. It is the biggest and closest of the group.

The net’s the parthenogenetic bitch-mutant feral child of big daddy mainframe.She’s out of control, kevin, she’s the sociopathic emergent system.Lock up your children, gaffer tape the cunt’s mouth and shove a RAT up her ASS.

A pink chainlink fence that stretches from one border of the computer screen to the other, effectively cutting the zine in two. A series of collaged skyscrapers and vintage billboards make up an incomplete skyline. Placed behind the first collage is a second, hazier view of the New York City skyline. It's dyed a deep purple and clings like a shadow to the webpage.

We’re [con]verging on the insane and the vandals are swarming. Extend my phenotype, baby, give me some of that hot black javamagic you’re always bragging about. (I straddle my modem). The extropians were wrong, there’s some things you can’t transcend.

The pleasure’s in the dematerialisation. The devolution of desire.

A girl sleeps in a twin-sized bed. The room dates to the 1950s and is blurry, compared to the woman's sharpened face. The entire photograph has a pink-green filter layed overtop, as well as binary code similar to the image of the party girls.

We are the malignant accident which fell into your system while you were sleeping. And when you wake we will terminate your digital delusions, hijacking your impeccable software.

Your fingers probe my neural network. The tingling sensation in the tips of your fingers are my synapses responding to your touch. It’s not chemistry, it’s electric. Stop fingering me.

Two pink hands reach out to grab the words between them.

Don’t ever stop fingering my suppurating holes, extending my boundary but in cipherspace there are no bounds [or so they say] BUT IN SPIRALSPACE THERE IS NO THEY


there is only *us*

An image of Saturn is overlayed atop a closer photograph of its rings. The collage itself has been dipped and dyed in about a hundred filters, streaking rainbow pixels across the image through automated glitch.
Trying to flee the binary I enter the chromosome which is not one

XXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXXYXX genderfuck me baby

resistance is futile

entice me splice me map my ABANDONED genome as your project artificially involve me

i wanna live forever

upload me in yr shiny shiny PVC future

SUCK MY CODE

An image of a polar bear standing amidst breaking ice has been edited and broken down to the point of incomprehension.

Subject X says transcendence lies at the limit of worlds, where now and now, here and elsewhere, text and membrane impact.

Where truth evaporates Where nothing is certain There are no maps The limit is NO CARRIER, the sudden shock of no contact, reaching out to touch but the skin is cold…

The limit is permission denied, vision doubled, and flesh necrotic.

Command line error


A woman hangs in the center of the frame, poised mid-swim. Behind her, an image of the galaxy rests against a purple background. Faded onto this galaxy is a still from Spike Lee's film Do the Right Thing, in which a woman gets an ice cube rubbed against her lip.

Heavy eyelids fold over my pupils, like curtains of lead. Hot ice kisses my synapses with an (ec)static rush. My system is nervous, neurons screaming - spiraling towards the singularity. Floating in ether, my body implodes.

I become the FIRE.

Flame me if you dare.

this is the first website ive ever made. if its shitty im sorry. this took me forever + was a ton of fun, so actually maybe im not sorry. just glad i did it. TALK TO ME ON instagram or email