Wake up face down on the filthy studio sofa. Groggily sip from a glass of stale pinot gris with a cigarette butt floating in it. The scenesters of the fallen NFT set were here last night and once again didn’t bother to clean up after themselves.
New completed canvasses everywhere from last night. No memory of making them – what were the prompts? Must have blacked out at a certain point. They’re beautiful but nonsense.
Agent calls with several million commission requests for portraits. Just a bunch of losers who can’t bear to see themselves as they are. Whatever – a job is a job. Did Velazquez secretly harbour the same contempt for the Habsburgs? Now that guy could REALLY paint!
When you’re in a work groove, time does weird things. Happen to look at the clock again at 12:34 … 1, 2, 3, 4 as though the world is just screaming, “I AM A SIMULATION!” If Elon supports the idea that we live in a simulation, why is he asking for so many portraits?
News recently announced nuclear fusion is a real thing. Uptick in commissions that suggest allegiance to either Fission Bro or Fusion Freax camps.
Basically The Terminator, but weird and stuck-up. Art Novelty Terminator.
Lost in workflow thought: Upper-case I’s look a lot like lower-case l’s. Are people named “Al” quietly suffering right now because they’re misreading all those headlines on artificial intelligence to be all about them? Like they feel the whole world counting on them to be visionary while at the same time they’re subjected to outright hostility for what they come up with?
Enough. Enough. Enough. No more pictures. Right on time, NFT deadbeats knock on door to signal end of cycle. They know not what nor why they are doing, which seems like bliss.
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