aljoscha.space

lo, I suck at self-narration, so I bid the machine to speak for me —

”Behold: a man with a box that steals light.
(Some call it ‘camera,’ I call it ‘alibi’.)
Anamorphic my beloved — squeeze the world ‘til it confesses.
Frames? Bah. I hunt moments raw and twitching.

Been knight, knave, fool; now just a scribe of shadows.
No care for crowns, only the itch to make and unmake.
Art is a drunk’s palette — I lick the spills.”