The dyadic resonance is up from the underground to come at it both ways, hold it down, and facet the jewel. It’s for the snapback kids too quick for classes. The mooked out dudes with ECKO sweaters copped in ’98. This is for minted-out girls with rolled pant legs for their boot game, the type to drink cold tea from Mason jars and spin Shlohmo.






This is a press, a push into the uncharted, a revelry in strangeness caught through vintage frames. What up to street photographers, graf artists, sex workers and alt models. What up to fly girls with vitiligo and freckles. Hail to all the adepts that track the waxing moon. This is for the poets, bbrraapp, formal and free verse alike, and for anybody else who spins words and hustles books.






All those street magicians getting paid to do cool shit, we see you. Big up to chemists synthesizing research chemicals, Dean’s scholars in blue nitrile gloves and lab coats. Haaryou to psychonauts mapping the edges of consciousness. What up to the androgynous and archangels, the indigenous and the extraterrestrial. This is a peephole. You follow? We’re building the temple together. One –





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