not to consume

emptiness in ears

naked nature before eyes

no clock aimed at head

chores put on ice

productivity be damned

leisurely wanderings began

Finally, I write.

I’ve been avoiding you

for so long—Afraid

I will let my emotions fall

Like Ash in the wind

White burn with charred hope

Wound so tight, and twisting

In my gut —my pain cries

And I long for you.

My own blood fresh drawn

On paper, and ink

But this is how it ends.

Speechless, and homeless

And who am I but not

A poet—Sad, sad, and

Long gone before —

I took my first breath.

The night sky over Silicon Valley buzzed with drones, a constant, artificial starlight cast down from Damian Sinclair’s floating fleet. Like his mind, they were ever watchful, scanning, analyzing, bending the shadows to reveal every hidden movement. Below, in his quiet glass tower, Damian watched the city pulse to his rhythm—a symphony of algorithms and innovations, all in his image. His reflection in the window seemed ageless, unchanging, a mere echo of his own genetic perfection. Somewhere, in cryogenic storage far beneath his feet, lay millions of embryos, each one a small monument to his genius. For Damian, this was no mere experiment. It was his greatest work—his legacy—crafted cell by cell to outlive them all.

A red button flashed on Damian’s desk. Damian strolled over and leaned into the microphone. “Yes, Tara?”

“Mr. Sinclair,” a cool voice breathed, “They’re ready for you.”

He cracked his neck and marched over to his office’s elevator. A grin slowly crept onto his face on the way down to the Keynote Arena. The doors opened to the sound of thunderous applause coming from behind the thick, silver curtain. Damian grabbed a microphone from a meek assistant, stepped through the curtain, and took in the sight of thousands of his admirers, from industry figures to reporters to the lucky few fans that had coughed up the ten grand it took to secure a seat there.

“My friends, today we are gathered to witness history in the making.” He could see a wave of spectators leaning in on the edge of their seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you today not as a mere innovator or CEO, but as a steward of our collective future. We live in an age of incredible achievement and unparalleled fragility. Our world is more connected, more technologically advanced than ever before—and yet, we’re more vulnerable to global threats: climate catastrophes, pandemics, political instability, rampant infertility. One unfortunate crisis, one moment of oversight, and the diverse tapestry of human achievement could unravel.” He paused, letting the silence stretch as he scanned their faces, leaning in, hungry to know his next words. “And only we—yes, we here—can prevent that.”

Behind him, a giant screen showed a cell failing to undergo meiosis, shriveling in a petri dish. It was replaced by a plump infant smiling down at the audience with icy blue eyes.

“That’s why I created Project Genesis, a comprehensive repository of the human gene pool, a vault designed to secure the full spectrum of humanity’s diversity. In this vault, we will store the DNA of individuals from every background, every corner of the globe. It’s a legacy library, preserving the finest details of who we are for generations to come.

“Imagine a future—a hundred, even a thousand years from now—when unforeseen events have altered the face of the Earth, and there’s a need to restore humanity’s genetic essence. Future generations will look to Project Genesis as the beacon of their heritage, able to rebuild a diverse, vibrant human population with all of our strengths and talents intact.

“This isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about the survival of humanity’s best qualities. Every artist, every scientist, every teacher, every visionary—we are collecting the DNA of pioneers and everyday heroes alike so that humanity will always have a path forward, no matter what happens.” Images of Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and Albert Einstein flashed on the screen. The images faded away to reveal a video feed that panned across the audience.

“Project Genesis isn’t a replacement for human life; it’s a safety net. A precaution. And as your steward, I believe it’s my duty to take this step now. Because if we don’t preserve ourselves, who will?” The crowd roared with excitement.

“You may recall providing a DNA sample with your entry here today. My gift to you all is that each one of you will be part of the first generation of this monumental archive. You will be the mothers and fathers of the future, regardless of the limitations biology may have placed on you.”

A collective gasp escaped from the audience and made way for another round of applause. Damian’s grin grew wider. The crowd didn’t know the first phase was already complete.

Damian walked back behind the curtain and took the elevator back to his office. He pressed a button on his desk and a large monitor lowered down from the ceiling. The news was already buzzing about his announcement. Headlines scrolled across the screen. “Eccentric CEO pledges to save the world.” “Sinclair Enterprises, the nexus between humanity and progress.” “Damian Sinclair champions biodiversity.”

Damian leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “Savior of the world” sure had a nice ring to it. It was true, too. At least, it would feel true to the citizens of the world. They would get to feel important and useful, which is as close to a sense of purpose as any mere human could hope for in the modern age.

Damian believed in the power of predictability and perfection. He felt that entropy was an unavoidable eventuality in a chaotic world, but it was his own purpose to harness that random disorder and turn it into a force for good—his own definition of the common good, that is. Human beings were messy, flawed, dangers to themselves and others. Replacing humanity with clones was a necessary evil—and “evil” itself? Such a subjective word.

- - - - - - - - - -

That night, Damian could hardly sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the millions of new beginnings resting safely in cryogenic freezers in the sub-basement. The first trials had been massively successful. All key performance metrics had been easily met, and not a whisper of it had escaped the top-secret lab. He felt the urge to check on his little ones.

Damian had a dozen children scattered across the world, each born via a carefully chosen surrogate. Each surrogate had been handsomely paid to bring progeny into the world, though a couple had turned down the money, as they felt it was a sufficient honor to give Mr. Sinclair the gift of life. He didn’t have relationships with these children. When they came of age, they would receive access to a hefty trust set up in their names. Until then, they were of little use to him. He would bring them out for photo ops to maintain his carefully constructed image of Damian Sinclair, benefactor and father to the modern world.

But these embryos—these were all his. When the time was right to release the rest into the world, he would release his tight grasp on their cryogenic chambers and unleash them throughout the planet—and beyond. Space was the final frontier, and he had already begun populating it with various satellites and probes in anticipation of a global catastrophic event. It was only a matter of time until humans finished wrecking the great planet they had been undeservedly gifted.

Damian pulled back the black silk sheets and stepped into his gilded slippers. He stopped at the wall of windows and took in the sight of his empire. Below, skyscrapers reached up toward his tower up above, obscuring the colonies of humans marching on the drab pavement underneath. Their lives were so… inconsequential. So meaningless until the moment Damian had deigned to give them something to hope for.

He pulled a white lab coat over himself. He hadn’t checked on the babies since the big announcement. Damian padded over to the elevator and clicked the button that led him down to the sub-basement. He felt the air grow colder and his breath crystallize into the air as he descended.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. He stepped into the gleaming white corridor and the doors closed behind him. He made his way down the long hall and past the row of heavy metal doors. He stopped with his right foot still hovering over a miniscule speck of dust on the white marble floor. He cursed the cleaning crew under his breath and vowed to relieve someone of their duties the next morning. Damian stepped over the impurity and toward the gold door at the end of the hall, the imperfection still fixed firmly in his mind.

He scanned his lanyard at the door and it slid open to reveal a massive laboratory. Rows of giant freezers stretched through the lab and lined every wall. He turned to a screen next to the door reading -272.5º C and frowned. This would not do. The embryos had to sit at exactly Absolute Zero to be preserved until their deployment. He angrily tapped at the screen to set it to -273.15º C.

Damian strolled through the rows of freezers and held a hand up to the frosty glass. Here laid the next step for humanity. The culmination of his decades of hard work. As he strolled past each cryogenic chamber, his gaze softened to a faint smile. Here lay the next step for humanity, his meticulously designed children, preserved at the very edge of absolute zero. And it was all his. His legacy.

During the day, few people had the privilege of access to this secret unit—only the top scientists and trusted engineers he had hand-picked. During the night, the place was empty. This was his sanctuary, where he could shout his dreams and lofty ambitions out to no one but his army of embryos.

Reaching out, he pressed a palm to the frosty glass, whispering to the embryos, “One day, little ones. One day, you’ll have the world. And when you do… it will be my world.”

---------------------

Note—This is a full novel I've written that I'm working on getting a literary agent for. Please message me if you're interested.

2016 movie,

Watched November 19, 2024

This is the first I heard of the movie or the book, so if anyone reading this feels this is a bit late, I understand.

I love a good thrill movie, hate gore, but love haunting, spooky that kind. Especially if it has a twist, you know, the kind of unexpected ending.

This movie pleasantly suprised, while I wasnt sure if I really wanted to watch it at first, as the movie went on I was pulled in to the story.

I dont want to give away anything just in case, so just know that its a low key spook show.

G rated as far as I would say.

Over all good movie, like a Saturday Matineé kind of movie.

Anyway

va profiter!

In the quiet spaces between words

rests the true weight of wisdom—

not in grand gestures or staged kindness,

but in the subtle art of seeing.

To make others feel like "somebody"

is first to understand:

they already are.

It is not our making, but our witnessing.

And here blooms the irony:

in striving to "be somebody" who lifts others,

we risk becoming saviors

when we were meant to be mirrors—

reflecting back the light

already burning within each person.

The deeper truth emerges:

We do not make people feel like somebody.

We simply stop making them feel like nobody.

Our task is not to create, but to recognize.

Not to elevate, but to acknowledge.

Not to give worth, but to witness it.

The most profound act

lies not in making, but in seeing—

in the quiet nod that whispers:

"I see you were somebody

long before I arrived."

White pine needles tick-tick-ticking against the window (like time, like subpoenas, like success slipping through desperate fingers). Sean "Puffy" Combs—guidance counselor badge gleaming against midnight cashmere in defiance of July heat—watches Timothy fold and unfold a college brochure with trembling hands.

"You're scared of greatness," Diddy says, voice smooth as aged cognac. "I see it in you." (He always sees it, has seen it since '91, watching Biggie in that Brooklyn deli, greatness wrapped in oversized plaid. And, of course, he saw it in *himself* when he dodged those civil suits back in 2023.) "But let me tell you something—" The words hang crystalline in the wood-paneled office, where motivational posters crowned with EXCELLENCE and PERSEVERANCE float like fever-dream billboards through ambient dust motes.

Timothy's fingers still their anxious origami. The brochure—Dartmouth, all autumn leaves and ivory towers—lies conquered.

"Your parents want medical school." Diddy adjusts his titanium-framed glasses, a gesture unchanged since the Bad Boy days, when contracts—not college applications—filled his field of vision. "But I'm hearing music in your molecules, young king. Been hearing it since you picked up that violin at talent night."

Timothy shifts uneasily in the cracked faux-leather chair. "But my parents—"

"Let me stop you right there." Diddy raises a hand, fingers adorned with the same diamond-studded rings that once clinked ominously on court tables. "Your parents invested in possibilities. I invested in certainties. Like the certainty that I'd bounce back from adversity every time someone tried to bring me down. You think lawsuits shook me? Nah, they sharpened me. You think settlements were failures? They were *lessons*, my man."

(The office smells of pine and privilege and potential. Always potential. And maybe a hint of Diddy’s custom cologne, Success by Sean John™.)

Timothy's posture performs a minute transformation: thoracic vertebrae realigning themselves toward possibility. Diddy catalogues the shift with predatory precision. He’s built empires on smaller tells than this.

"But—" Timothy's voice emerges quantum-uncertain, simultaneously strong and fragile—"they've already mapped out my whole pre-med schedule. MCAT prep starts next summer. My father keeps saying music was fine for building discipline, but now it's time to be practical—"

"Practical?" Diddy rises, Trevor Emory suit whispering against leather. The word hangs between them like a challenge. Outside, beyond the window's membrane, children's voices carry across the lake like scattered prayers. "Let me tell you about practical. I invested everything in what they told me couldn't be. Took that investment, multiplied it through sheer—" he pauses, letting the word build like a bass drop "—audacity."

Timothy’s eyes track Diddy’s movement with the hesitant hunger of a young artist recognizing permission. The air conditioner hums in G minor.

"Your parents want you to follow their dream." Diddy taps a perfectly manicured finger on the Dartmouth brochure, smirking as if it personally offended him. "But when I started Bad Boy Records, my mother wanted me to be an accountant. ACCOUNTANT." He pauses for effect, raising his voice just loud enough to make the secretary peek nervously through the office door. "You think Forbes lists are full of accountants? Nah, young king. They’re full of *visionaries*."

Timothy blinks. "I don’t know if I—"

"You don't know if you what? Have what it takes? Let me tell you something about doubt." Diddy leans forward, elbows on mahogany, presence filling the room like smoke. "Doubt is success whispering, 'You sure, though?' And you know what I whisper back? ‘Hell yes.’"

A blue jay lands on the windowsill—watching, witnessing. Timothy straightens his spine, lets the Dartmouth brochure fall. His fingers twitch with phantom violin strings.

"I’m still not sure," Timothy starts hesitantly, but his voice is different—less a whimper, more a melody.

Diddy laughs, the sound layered with multitudes: Brooklyn streets and Manhattan penthouses, platinum records and publicists dialing damage control. "Let me tell you what I’m sure about. I’m sure that you, my young maestro, have the gift. And you know what we do with gifts?"

Timothy shakes his head, entranced.

"We unwrap them. And then we drop them on *everybody's heads*." Diddy pulls a gilt-edged Rolodex from his desk drawer, its pages heavy with the weight of connections. "I know a little conservatory in New York. They owe me a favor. Well, several favors. Let me make a call."

The guidance office holds its breath. Somewhere outside, beyond the pines, beyond the whispers of old lawsuits and newer scandals, the future rearranges itself like notes finding their perfect chord.

Beethoven pens

the Music

Internal

Ppa Ppa Ppa Ppum!!

to Feel the Sound

as we Heard it

in Boxes, in Halls

and Wood or Metal

Tunnels

what Passes on

in Movement

on Breath

by Extension

he Bends himself

as Tapping a Finger

or Heart in the Breast

the Slow

and/or Quick

Exhale

as Hands

in Embrace

or Footsteps

in Haste

Major Gestures

as well as Lesser

bodily Functions

Beats that Fall

Sharp or Flat

and Charge

the Rhythm of

the Atmosphere

as Captured

on Lined Paper...

Dot chasing Dot.

Vincent stood aways from the cafe finishing his second bottle of cheap red wine, the easel stood unsteadily on the cobble stone road and the stars were so strange tonight.

He dipped the brush into coloured paint of his choosing, not what he saw, life was a phantasm anyway thought Vincent.

Tonight he would see her again, the girl, and if she did not love him he would prove his love to her.

Perhaps his brother would buy this one he painted now, for a few pennies.

Such a strange light tonight, such a strange strange light.

Perhaps

Pencils don’t bend;

four minus two is two;

and Mona Lisa’s eyes

don’t follow you.

Science and math

say these statements are true,

even if you insist

she’s still looking at you.

Using computers,

measurements, and subjects,

researchers have debunked

that Mona Lisa effect.

But researchers

came to the conclusion

that the Mona Lisa

does have an illusion.

In his painting,

experts say, da Vinci snuck

into Mona Lisa a smile

that’s a frown when viewed close up.

So, pencils don’t bend;

four minus two is two;

and Mona Lisa is just

messing with you.

We put arms on the table

we trace the grain, or linen, or other veins

or fold our fingers, and wait

We count chairs and plates

the hands of the clock change place

and we watch, with horror, grrr

as our guest pushes back a seat

and sets both feet, atop the table.