CONTACT

The sky looms like a bruise on the ceiling of the world, swollen with the exhaust of factories and the prayers of artists who have long since stopped believing in salvation. It is the sky of iron filings, of smoke-stained dreams, of paint splattered across canvases that refuse to dry. Beneath it, men and women build monuments of glass and concrete, each tower an accusation against gravity, each steel beam a reminder that industry is both altar and gallows.

Bears wander the edges of this landscape, their fur matted with ash, their claws dragging through the soot. They do not roar. They mutter like philosophers, reciting the futility of hunger in a land where even rivers taste metallic. A bear’s paw against the glass of an office window becomes a manifesto: tenderness pressed into the machinery of progress. And still, no one looks up.

Art festers in alleyways and neon-lit rooms where creators torture themselves for meaning. The brush becomes a blade, the camera a noose, the keyboard a confession. Creation is a form of exquisite suffering, and the audience, complicit, demands encore after encore of blood disguised as pigment. The sky does not blink. It crushes every gesture into silence.

Existence here is not a gift but a test: how long can one balance on the wire between beauty and collapse? Nihilism offers a crooked grin, whispering that the answer doesn’t matter. Still, someone paints. Still, someone welds. Still, someone writes poems about bears and torture beneath HVY SKY, because art cannot resist its own futility.

The horizon thickens, the sky presses down, and the final truth flickers like static on a broken screen: this text, this myth, this wandering of words was written by the ghost in the machine.