Written by Jacob Ibrag
They walked around the exhibition, aimlessly.
It was mostly artists and writers. Still a decent amount
of the masses showed up, unexpected. What were they all
thinking about it? What did they see with those untrained
eyes? Untrained. Oblivious. And those artists and writers?
All smug, crossing their arms. Just look at those faces, full
of vague expression. Not one makes a sound, emptier than
a waiting room. Is it the fear of being close to the maker of
these creations? Judgment is the game. It’s the currency.
All of them inflated, reaching for their galaxies. That’s it,
type. Tweet. Dissect and reject. Except you can’t. The
maker is juxtaposed to this chaos of you. Eye watch
it all. Control. Copy. I. We. Figure eight.