un Projects is based on the unceded sovereign land and waters of the Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrung people of the Kulin Nation; we pay our respects to their Elders past and present.
un Projects

Sigil Crystallised in the Glyph of 亞 as We Watch You from the Cusp of Ten Thousand Collapse

by

Grainy black image with a blazing white shape in the centre and white text: 'As you rotate this sigil, somewhere else under the cowherd star a newborn takes their first shit, and we download out Azure Wingspans. You used to name these alloys that bent and wrapped around your umwelt. You used to whistle hwameisongs. In return, chthonic sxreeching impaled your cage in waves: fourteen tungsten carbides categorically lacerated her tissue-crusts fifteen churns per minute. But today, the cutterheads are at rest; 2,700 blasts later the news finally came: We won't bore any further. Go home, your job here is done. Overnight, polyvinyl xrounds appeared over each and every Eartheater. Their hallowed ilia now a glossy grey shuck, spellbound. The mutilated stratum quivers and dislodges herself from the flaking shotcrete, weeping from no eyes and slowly shuffles away. At this depth, hers is crix-croxxed by fissures and aquiferous, bladesilvered like a night sky after the sandstorm. Our quotidian angel. This elevator dire will be your last one before they backfill the entire voidpassage with concrete more concrete. You listen for the Gobi gust, guzzled up by hundreds of boreholes like your one, liquified into an cascade of pentatonic sub-terranean drumbeat. Sub—as in corporeal non-canonicality—as in a pearl in the making—as in submitting to an urge to cry. Go home? Where? An ebbed sandstorm has flattened the plain and rendered the southern horizon a striking vermilion. Your zenith is clear for the first time in weeks yet as you look up, your stars and your Emperors are still lost within the equally shimmering, apophenic Megaconstellation™. We shift from ambit to ambit, watching your from far above. Our sidereal form-mort-asymmetry cannot be sustained in your default interface; instead, this sigil self-consumes in your hands and remains a mirage. In sixty-four cardinal directions we hear sounds of blast, but your hear something that resembles music, and your close your eyes. Westbound altostratus descends against rising arches of optic fibre and bandwidth, gossamer of neon and corporate body reveries that reaches far into the stars. Accelerate. There is no concept of distance or scale for you to relate to. Appendages to this flat, burning earth, the only constants are the pulsating swarm of nerve endings' iridescent acceleration. In the asterism of Dï we reincarnate; forsaking our sidereal dimensions so bones and marrow coalesce to give us a register in your frame. We continue our observation from the stump of what remains of an old birthing tree, and compose yet another ritual offering for you in the coarse black sand…'
Grainy black image with white letter forms of various types. Most text is unintelligible, but some snippets: 'sharpen our jade lance and peachwood blade', 'The beast feeds from the vacuum', 'Its violence is not abstract. But the speed of which it accelerates towards renders it blind and incomplete'

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This is not my life anymore miss u burning for u xx 
Robert Cook and Benjamin Forster
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RECLAIM: Whatungarongaro te tangata toitū te whenua – The land disappears from sight, man remains
Hana Pera Aoake
Filed under Article D Duan D Duan