She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

Lee Alexander McQueen

He came from nowhere, and yet he arrived like thunder.

This work does not retell his life. It listens to it.

A palette of pressure—white precision, yellow brilliance, black collapse.

Red, of course. Always red.

What emerged on runways was spectacle. What lived inside was something else.

This is not a portrait. It’s a pulse.

A reckoning.

A quiet tribute to a man who bled beauty, even when it broke him.

Goya / Picasso

Two visions. Two wounds. One truth.

This painting does not recreate their work. It listens to the echo.

Violence speaks in layers—chaos cloaked in colour, grief hidden in the gestures.

At the centre: a mother. Bare. Bearing witness.

She sees what men have done, and still she stands.



This is not about history.

It’s about the silence that follows it.

G.B. America – Space Cowboy

He reached out.

Not as an offering,

not in peace.

But in the posture of arrival.

They moved away.

Not in fear, but in knowledge.

This isn’t a story of beginnings.

It’s a painting of what was already known,

and what was taken anyway.

The myths came later.

The distance remains.

Playlist for #010 ECDYSIAST MAGNUM MA

Ecdysiast

She dances.

But this is not performance. It is invocation.

The room watches—sweating, dreaming, forgetting their names.

Figures lean forward, lost in velvet haze and private memory.

She moves. They ache.

This is not about sex. It’s about suggestion.

Not the body, but what it does to time.



There are symbols here. And riddles.

You’ll see what you came for.

End of Round One

The city roars.

Markets flash. Shadows rise.

From the right, he enters—quiet, certain, final.

This isn’t about money.

It’s about need. About never enough.

The buildings don’t sleep. The people don’t speak.

Something is coming that doesn’t care who made it.

The round is over.

The rules never mattered.

I Hamlet

To think. To stall. To split.

The colours bleed: scarlet, skin, shadow.

His thoughts are loud. His hands stay still.

Denmark fades. The stage remains.

He is prince. He is pawn. He is Marwood in borrowed boots,

quoting lines as if they might save him.

This is not a retelling. It’s a relapse.

A mind in dialogue with itself.

A crown too heavy to wear.

I. Hamlet.