“Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish—a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested . . . Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Generation of Swine: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the '80's
PICNIC AT THE END OF THE WORLD:
A visual saga of dissociation and multiversal grace.
This is not an apocalypse,
It’s a picnic at the event horizon of our shared hallucination
In a time when reality is glitching at the seams
when our phones know us better than our lovers,
when dreams bleed into algorithms,
and when time is a bad joke we keep forgetting the punchline to...
we lay out a blanket
We sit down
We remember what it means to feel
This series, born from psychedelic visions and late-night existential spirals, draws from Donnie Darko’s fatalistic mysticism and Terrence McKenna’s psychedelic prophecy. It asks:
What if you’re not just one person?
What if this isn’t the only Earth?
What if time is a loop, a mobius strip, a broken record you can dance to
0xC...2dc
