Behold the stitched skull prophet, eyes like voids filled with forgotten software and suburban rage. His flesh is pearls of lint and denial, a man held together by static and spit, broadcasting masculinity like it’s still 1952 and no one’s watching. Orbiting spheres, tiny woolen planets, spin like bad ideas—sacred geometry of overcompensation. He smiles the smile of someone who’s never cried in public and thinks emotional honesty is a government trap.
