Art and life run on the same track.

America no longer has art or culture—it has entertainment. If it’s not entertaining, it’s not culture, and it’s not culture unless it’s entertaining. This dystopian paradigm is antithetical to both art and human life.

The sleeping crocodile of comfort closes its jaws around you—escape the stupor of the post-truth age and sail your black-sailed skiff into the horizon, against the current, charting a new ethics of valor and aesthetic genealogy. Refuse to be numbed.

Disrupt, disturb, and disconcert. Define the indefinable. Utter the ineffable. Test your truths and sharpen the knife edge of your conviction on the whetstone of everyday life.

Create a new relationship between painter and viewer, writer and reader, musician and listener.

This isn’t a literary journal.

Nobody sees it coming. And what is coming is better than what has gone.

Make art a dangerous space.