Website of Issable Lijt eing

>Instead of balancing on the knife's edge I impaled myself on the tip<

Check out fellow artist Daniel

Links to works

[Writing] Di Opiz
[Writing] Wnena Cqnan Oxanena
[Photography + Digital Art] Step 2 of 9999 - 11/18/2023
[Digital Art] Untitled - 11/21/2023
[Digital Art] Untitled - 11/23/2023
[Edited Photography] I'm an Individual - 12/10/2023
[Edited Photography] Burning - 02/21/2024
[Edited Photography] Oppression - 2/22/2024
[Photography] The Only Path - 03/16/2024
[Digital Art] Untitled - 04/06/2024
[Digital Art] Lips - 04/11/2024
[Digital Art] Ecevlbration - 04/21/2024
[Digital Art] failure - 06/12/2024
[Edited Photography] Make it Stop - 07/30/2024
[Edited Photography] Tribute to the Concrete Cathedral - 09/01/2024
[Writing] Amrrmrk Keqi - 09/06/2024
[Edited Photography?] Hyper-Realism - 09/15/2024
[Digital Art] E QIEREGI - 12/31/2024
[Writing] True Love - 01/26/2025
[Writing] Stay Golden and Keep Your Chin Up - 01/26/2025
[Writing] New Moon - 01/26/2025
[Writing] Layer 1 - 02/28/2025
[Digital Art] Bull in a china shop - 03/06/2025
[Digital Art] Bull in a China shop - 03/25/2025

>He said to the mirror<

>A mirror cracks along a predetermined pattern

>It reflects only in x-ray

>Follow the scent of salt through the doorway, out the window.

>Follow it east.

>Past the trucks, over the precinct, just outside the old hospital.

>Make a right and follow the street signs until they turn blue and lose their letters.

>Turn back east and keep following, go until numbers go dull and the sky vanishes.

>There is a home, but it's not yours anymore, what are you doing, the sea is gone

>This burning is not "wunderbar"<

>There is a point where one is so far from home that every way leads away from it

>A point of no return

>A point where every direction moves you further away from everything before

>Only a faded memory exists, distilling the image into silhouettes and lemon laced words

>Until the very letters lose their meaning, and the memory has been so distorted as to have never actually existed

>The alarm sounds at 7:30

>My best or worse and still without<

Di Opiz

Under everything that defines a person, beneath the clothes and tags, then the hair
and flesh, through the hunger pains and sore throat, past the inflated liver and tarred
lungs, into the folds of the mind, through the frontal lobe and anchors, through the
hippocampus and traumas, then even deeper than the reptilian brain and instincts,
though not past the spinal cord. A long journey to find the most fundamental part of
a person. Is it fear or hunger, no. It's also not reproduction or competition. It's not
even pain. The basic part of a human, the part subsumes all of the human condition.
It's love.

The rust belt is a sea of something great that was supposed to happen. That time has
passed, that time never was. The rust belt never achieved that great. Despite the
people and output, and despite the executions and fires, it never finalized itself. The
thermal vent closed. It is forgotten, it's people forlorn, it's servants gone. Everything
was never ever and nothing is the new forever. It's rust, it's mold, it's the realization
that the bed isn't yours.

The sun is watching and narrating the world as it spins. Everywhere the sun touches
the sun repeats. It can't help itself, it is its nature. When the voice of the sun reaches
Earth, the atmosphere becomes a receiver and an encryptor. It takes the waves and
feelings of the sun and converts it into easy to comprehend concepts; wind and rain.
It's impossible to decrypt by any means. However sometimes, for brief moments,
that wind and rain, that encryption, can be understood. It's in the spine. The feet are
roots while shoulder blades become wings. The wind pushes up along the back and
the spine breaks down the noise into a series of signals and sensations. The brain
attempts to turn this noise into something comprehensible and in doing so can exist
where the sun does in photos like flickering lights.

Tune in.

>The city is historic, steel

>Where all roads connect is the final point of contention

>Pass back to the northwest is the new suburb, brick

>The village splits the city along an unnatural axis

>Projects line the sides of closed roads, concrete.

>The 5th floor window of a tower shows a man looking into a mirror

>The mirror is rays the man holed

>Wind blows and catches his back for story

>He puts on his coat and zips it, he'll unzip it tonight

>He'll do it again tomorrow

>Now give me a spin<

Wnena Cqnan Oxanena

            	
        It's raining, the valley is under flash flood alert and people are advised to stay off the roads. The rivers push higher than normal causing the hiking trails to be closed down for the day. Pollen, that was in the air a few hours ago, is now dragged back down the flowers they just left.  The tents are sealed shut, no sound can be heard from any of them. All the while there's a singular eye watching the whole scene, God is in his tower. A window is left open, following it in a mirror reflects the world back in x-ray. The surface has cracked in a predetermined way, one crack splits a man in two. Exiting the window and following the scent of salt, there is a recently put out barrel fire, though the city did not cause this one. A pack of strays walk the boardwalk checking the trash cans for scraps from an era ago.

Outside the heart of the city, on the outskirts where development ceased, the rain is lighter. The scent of industry is less pronounced and the sky a different shade of gray. A truck moves along the motorway hauling old souvenirs. A mother and son move fast with their dog to get home soon. In the basements, families are talking, some reading, the young are drawing and the old are sleeping. Beneath them is an arrowhead from 8,000 years ago. Platoons move down the streets, squads of mice watch from the intersections. A truck that hadn't been moved goes warm, the first of hell's chorus sings as the copper alternator threatens to fry, but ultimately cannot deliver. The roads are yet to flood, and in some parts will never. A cat scampers under a deck satisfied with its catch.

At the edge of city limits all roads have been closed. Locked down some time before, now also by floods. Farmers set up makeshift dams to protect each other's crops. A barn, whose roof gave way some weeks ago, stands defiantly where the rest folded in upon themselves. All audio becomes lost in liquid static and video shows a present in the future. In a cellar a girl is celebrating a birthday party with friends; the cake was left in the rain. She moves the torn curtains that hide a small square window next to the ceiling, waving her wand, disturbing the dust. She makes a wish. The wish was covered by the movement of an electric locomotive, and the sound of magnet breaks. The train stops at a concrete platform, no more than one foot off the ground and sinking. The roof is made of sheet metal and is propped up by eight steel poles. The storm threatens to fold the roof in on itself, but it holds just barely. Water still leaks. Only two people are there for the 7 pm train. One wears green cotton coveralls, stained with mud and faded. He wears ankle high brown leather boots, suited for keeping water out, his coveralls tucked into them. With him was a canvas duffle bag, only slightly tattered, carrying stale bread, a few bottles of water, heroin, and a Pelic-Mabrie .357 rifle. In his left chest pocket, a few bullets and a ticket, in his right a needle. He pulls out his ticket and makes his way to the train. Behind him, now also moving towards the train, but without a ticket, is another man. He wears a gray Nomex overall, with bright horizontal yellow stripes. This man has black boots that go high above the ankle, but 2 inches short of his knee, his coveralls hide most of the boot. With this man is nothing else but 2000 Zvel.

A train approaches, a forgotten line. The cabins have been stripped of their red paint. The only identifier for the train was welded on the front, but it was obstructed by the present storm. No one cared much anyway, this was one of two trains that ran here, and the other one is proper. A loud and sharp eeeeeeer suppresses the thunder as the magnet breaks beg for mercy and a good cleaning. The train halts, a carriage door opens, a malnourished conductor. She doesn't descend the few steps and simply stands in the open door. She wears a blue coat that falls just above the knees and blue pants that fit loosely. Although not something visible, she has a belt that has had a hole punched in far enough up as to fit her thin stature. On her face are thick spectacles that make her eyes smaller, myopia. She moves her hand and gently encourages the two men to come hither and to hand over their tickets. Her fingers pale and jittering. As the men approach, and as the green coverall man prepares to hand over his ticket, she stops him. She looks at both men without moving her neck, and wordlessly, through the use of eyes and hidden expression, tells them she won't bother checking their tickets. She makes a sharp 180 degree turn and returns back inside, probably then making a left and going towards the engine compartment. The two men don't stop, they don't even hesitate. They instead walk up the few steps and enter the train, the Nomex man closing the door behind him. Both make a right turn and make their way into the traveler compartments. Their boots would squeak on the wooden floor if not for being neglected for some time.

The first compartment they enter has very few people. It's not first class or business or economy, after all that is much investment for this line, it's just a boring wooden box compartment that was designed to move as many people as possible. Light bulbs hang off wire above, their humming out done by the rain hitting the top of the roof. Most of the windows are covered up by plywood in lieu of proper glass replacements. Both of these make the interior all the more claustrophobic. There's just enough space to walk one person down the middle. Each seat is just one bench and a very thin table runs parallel to said bench, a piece of paper couldn't even lay on it. This train goes through pornography poor enough areas to justify being put on the lowest priority for all things maintenance, pay, and comfort. The whole cabin is at an angle caused by harsh winds pushing on the train. The two men, keeping their heads low and eyes down, move further down the compartment and move to the next compartment. It only took them 10 steps to do that. In the second compartment it is the same thing, just with even less people and this time with a leaky roof. Unlike back at the station, this leak has a 5-gallon bucket under it; it's empty but slowly filling. Again, the two men make their way to the back, going into the final compartment. Again in 10 steps. Here it's the same story, minus the leak and people. There is no one back here. The man in the green coveralls takes a seat in the left aisle, four seats from the front. It is one of two left side seats with a window still. He goes as close to the window as possible and sits his duffle next to him, putting him between glass and canvas. The Nomex man takes a seat on the right aisle, six seats from the front. This is one of the four windowed seats on this side. Much as the green overall man, he sits next to the window. His eyes are looking towards where the city is, but the storm is blocking the horizon. For these two men, they never intend to return to this place. Neither missing it, neither regretting it, both downhearted.

Before any of them could start to organize their thoughts and harsh whirring sound, caused by the electric locomotive re-engaging, and the lights flickering, they brought everyone back to the present, to train line 48. A series of hard vibrations are felt throughout the cabins. The whirring dissipates as the engine warms up enough to start moving the eccentric crank, and the lights stabilize, now a bit brighter. A horn is heard and the train starts moving. The rotten planks, scattered granite stones, and warped steel-aluminum alloy that make up the railway all combine into a bumpy, loud, uncomfortable ride. It is technically still safe and sound, and most importantly, within regulation. Both of the men stare into the storm fog as the land around them moves backwards. The bumps on the hardwood benches are cruel on their back, but kinder than this place.

>A radio tower in the heart of the city looks for a being
>And within the alleys and along the bombed out apartments there's nobody
>Behind all the radio chatter of foreign entities, nothing
>Underneath the paved roads, where tram lines once ran, never there
>Playing on eternity, looping the same song, shouting into the empty
>Everyone, everywhere, at the same time, was lost to the expunged
>All forever never there.

>I can't not ball<

Step 2 of 9999

>A shattered mirror and a shattered mirror that has been stepped on look and operate the same<

Untitled

>In this sense I am emotionally industructable<

Untitled

>I CAN'T not ball<

I'm an Individual

>A terror lies under the shadow of who I was<

Burning

>Its truth always in the back of my throat<

Oppression

>I'll never get into Heaven with receipts like this<

The Only Path

>Every night I pop my head off, a new one is forced from the spine to take its place<

Untitled

>I crawl into corners and wait for the night to past<

Lips

Ecevlbration

failure

Make it Stop

Tribute to the Concrete Cathedral

Amrrmrk Keqi

>I zip up my pants, then zip up my jacket

>I zip up my bag and go outside

>I then unzip my bag and pull out books

>I put every back in the bag and zip it up

>I then unzip my bag and pull out books, again

>I put every back in the bag and zip it up, again

>I then unzip my bag and pull out books, again

>I put every back in the bag and zip it up, again

>I go home and unzip my jacket and unzip my pants

>I go to sleep

>I do it again

	>and again

		>and again

>I am growing weary of this zipping and unzipping

>Through this weariness I either give up or superseded my nature

>Thousands of times

>And I have to win every time

	>every time

		>every time

	>until the day I die

		>every time

Hyper-Realism

E QIEREGI

>Here in the City of Babylon I have found everything!

>Here in the Library of Babel I have learned everything!

>Yet still I wonder about something I have missed

True Love

>We are all suppose to be able to love
>To see another and love
>To see their child and love
>We are all supposed to be able to care
>To see the success of another and care
>To see the suffering of another and care
>We are all suppose to be able to help
>To see someone fail and help
>To see our own failure and accept help
>But there is none of that, we are in disharmony
>Fascism killed the love, forced it into disharmony
>Apathy killed the care, let it turn into disharmony
>Capital killed the help, molded it into disharmony
>The help, the care, the love embodied in every human is not
>We hold a love made of lies
>To make it circumstantial
>To make it for those deemed deserving
>We care only for ourselves
>To make all efforts for inconveniences
>To make a mask when it looks good
>We help no one
>To make other sink under the brink
>To make ourselves sink with them
>True help
>True care

>True love is only possible in a place away from us, the place after us, the next place

>True love is only achievable with new people, people who saw their inferiors fail

>True love isn't possible for us, we are doomed.

Stay Golden and Keep Your Chin Up

>I saw it
>With my own eyes
>I saw it with my own eyes
>As the promises of the Old World, called the New World, crashed down upon me and my others
>All the prosperity promised
>All the luxury promised
>All the hope promised
>I saw the whole thing collapse in on itself, the lies supporting it too weak
>Some of us delved into consumption
>Some of us are trapped in a forever grind
>Some of us gave up
>None of us, not anywhere, could rationalize the idea
>How so many believed in it
>How so many constructed it
>How so many lied about it
>We want to call them evil, but most of them were fooled like us
>The ones who weren't fools left a message for us
>The writing was on a napkin and covered in grease
>The message read: Stay golden and keep your chin up; it'll come around eventually; just give it time

>Shame I can't afford gold or time.

New Moon

>Now the Red Sun sets
>Now in place is the New Moon
>Now it will be dark

>If you wanna go to the new world<

Layer 1

            
	I awaken to the cold. Tiny flakes of snow settle on my face. My back a chilled organ, my arms numb. The hands attached(?) to the angel that lies on the ground might not exist. The sky is riddled with a disco shine on a floor of no light. It's cold. I don't remember anything good. I remember hating, I remember walking somewhere cold, and there was an orange fog just over some sharp geometric shapes. I was outside places I wasn't. I hated that I wasn't, and I wanted to save it. I remember remembering a confirmation. Only now do I realize I'm breathing, my nose is petrified, scared, but my cheeks burn. Snow has been gathering on my eyelashes in preparation for the invasion of my eyes, still more cold. I blink, I blink more, when that's not enough I find that hands love to clear, when that's not enough, I cry, but the tear froze before they could leak.

	Why am I here? Before any other cognitive functions activate, that is the first question that appears. I want to be not cold. A second, more relevant thought. Where am I? Disregard that, two things at a time. The thought stays. It feels like more things need to get done before I can get up. Why can't I get up? I want to, I want to get my back off the ground, I want to keep snow out my eyes, I want to feel something with my hands, the things I'd do to be warm. Still, I keep lying on the ground. Something else steers, the chilled parts, somewhere above the legs and below the nose, somewhere between the arms. It is different from the cold, yet it still holds the same abstinence of something. Please let me get up.

	The winds, I can hear them now. It's loud - in fact, it's not disco that I am seeing - it's a storm. The tiny flakes were not so. Is this all there is? Have I woken up inside an onyx at the bottom of the sea? Seamstresses sow something for the cold, a tanner drys something for the cold, an angel heats something for the cold, but I lay in the cold, a straitjacket attached to the ground like a display figurine. I have a strange love with the ground. Maybe if I rest, I'll be able to get up.

 	No, something snaps, a series of nerves kick-off, my spine is straight, my spine is compressed-air and hydraulics fire off in the structure of my body. Walking somewhere, but where? I'm up, and I'm clothed. A thick black tangzhuang, two layers of jeans, some boots but no socks. I can't see under the tangzhuang, but I can't feel my chest. 

	Up, a horizon. Concrete: everywhere, there is concrete, brick, and steel poles. None of it is organized; it's not set up for habitation. No, it's all apart. Little flickers of light emanate from many of the bent, fallen, or tilted lamp posts. Snow. Snow on the monoliths, snow on the poles, snow where roads-green-space-sidewalks were. It's uninhabitable. Further out, over the entroponic place these constructs exist in, there are real buildings. Strange height or material, but some lights are on in all of them.

	"It's not often one finds an angel."

	I'm encountered with a silhouette of a person, a negative space before the decay, something to break the snow, ants would clutter before their legs and wriggle under their maybe boots. The voice, I can't make out the voice. I know they said something, but I couldn't make it out. Yet I know what they said.

	"I'm sorry, what was that?" Asking this is meaningless. I know what they said, but it feels correct; I need to ask this.

	"I said, 'There's not many people out here'." They say in reply.

	Nay, that's wrong, that is not what they said. I know that's not what they said I have it here. I can't make it out, but I know it wasn't that. They said something about an angel. It's a fact. It's a fact because I have it here, I didn't hear it, but I know it, it's...it's there.

	"No, there isn't much of anything out here. Can you help me?" The second part is automatic, and yet I don't back down, I don't stammer in reaction. I don't know where I am or who I am, or why my focus is on me. Something steers my body and runs my mouth.

	I dream. Of a pathway marked with florescent street lights. The cement, the grass, the brick building that houses many but not me, it's all bleached by the streetlights. They seem so bright, my eyes burn the longer they point. The path keeps going straight. I pull a left and continue on a different path. My knuckles hurt, the skin is broken, and inside the dermis, splotches of deep red have formed. Scaring lines the back of my fingers, entrapping flies that take form in scar tissue from burns. It's a box, the place I'm in and heading to. Right now, an 11-story brick tower imposes itself upon me, cornering me into a few 4-story buildings to my front and left. I could turn around and follow the path from before, but my legs seem to want to go through the box. In my box, it's dark, I want to be alone, but something is in my way. I can't think. Wishes it was less in the way, that it would drown itself in a smaller box while consuming small glasses. It doesn't; it drowns itself in the box but thinks enough to be in my way. The world has less than 30 years, and all it can do is just sit there and not think and think enough to be in my way. It needs to fall into line or die less I die before. The stairwell keeps going up. 101, 102, 103, 104, all the way back to 001. The immensest set of stairs. As I take another step, I feel myself unbecoming. The concrete walls fade away, and the rail that keeps me from falling into the center vanishes. Definition in the steps vanishes, the separation between levels blending into a zero slope. I die, unbecome the body; I live, becoming the next body. When my eyelids shut, a whole world forms, a universe under absolutism where I am god. Lines wish and wash, colors outside the trinary limit and exist in concept. They open, and a million million million die. 101, 102, 103, 104, all the way back to 001.

	They open, it's warm, where am I? No, first, 10 fingers curl in and out. I'm here and alive. It's cold, but manageable. No snow in my eyes, back is cold but soft? Shift shift shift, no, I'm on something soft and warm, which is the definition of not being freezing. Above me or in front of me is a single glowing bulb swinging a little here and a little there. Spots, dancing spots, dancing black spots pepper my eyes. Perhaps something ate my eyes while I was gone. It all feels so safe, something enjoyable. Never knew enjoyable before now, not a word in my vocabulary. I could keep searching, or maybe I could just lie back, perhaps I could just let go.

	It's dark, again, but in a first-time style. The dark isn't the natural dark of closed eyelids. This is the dark only done by a bleeding Earth. I can still see my skin, my whole body, it's also dark, and also unnatural. It's natural but not for skin. Skin doesn't look like this, it doesn't do things like hover in the air when I'm moved. I move, and sometimes it hurts. Sometimes my skin, my real skin, hurts. Rug burns if the rug was abrasive and not soft, and not on the ground but used as sound insulation. It's windy, but perhaps on my account and not nature, because although sometimes I am burned, I spend most of my time going up, I think. I spit to see where it falls, and it doesn't, I'm dehydrated. My mouth taste pencils shavings from my 2nd grade sharpener, the teacher banned colored pencils that year. Looking back, I see she might have been banned from letting us use color pencils. Whatever state my mouth is in pales to the state of my lungs. I could've smoked a few times, but it feels like I've smoked my entire life. Coughing fits appear here and there, and each time, my throat finds a way to hurt new.

	A hole, a hole I've not seen before, through all the black clouds, I can make out a circular light source, or an absence of the abrasive rug. Either way, it's new and breaks the monotony of the fall so far, to fall and miss. Bigger, it gets bigger. Every thought that passes, it gets bigger. At every start and end of a coughing fit, it gets bigger. Every memory of the hats with red stars, it gets bigger. I think, I assume, it's an out, and soon I will pass. Despite all the terribleness of this place, it is unnerving to go so close to the hole. It warps around me, covering some of my points of view, then more, then half, four-thirds, almost all. I close my eyes and hold them, but I know all of my view is the hole.

	I'm flying, I can see from the ground. I see myself shot out of the smoke stack at inteivgillion miles per hour. From above, I see myself looking up, I'm smiling; from below, I'm smiling across black powder. Zoom, awe. Lights show themselves to me, letting me know something I can't figure out. It doesn't matter, look at me go. It is the most wonderful of feelings. From below the whole scene is bittersweet, I'm still here forever, from above it is bliss, I made it. Why isn't it always like this? Why do I have to go through all of the smoke and abrasions to get here? It doesn't matter. The worst sulfur pits of eternity pale to the feeling of up here, the greatest good it could ever be. The lights are signaling more, not flashing but appearing and vanishing behind the smoke. What could they be saying? I know, I knew once I closed my eyes, I knew once my shoulder hurt.

	I slam into something at mach telegillion. The warmth of the something cues me into how cold it really is, how cold I am. In my ears, all the frequencies are hitting them. Every tower with a 50-mile radius, all the information of the world transmitted to this city into these ears. My eyes bleed to hear it all, taking it all in. I lied. There is something that defeats the greatest good. The warmth, the warmth makes it feel a little better, the warmth of the something I hit. I finally open them, the eyes -I see gold, but also blue- I see an angel. I hit an angel at mach telegillion. I'm sorry, but I was flying. It is odd, I don't know what I look like from below; maybe it's because I'm not flying anymore and falling down. Falling on a starless night, starless without a moon, what kind of world? I'm fading, fading as I fall past the chimney, fading as I fall past the roof, faded before I hit the asphalt group. The whole thing must've looked spectacular. To see a body fly so fast and yet so short, to see an angel killed, to see the body and suspect vanish into black-gold glitter. Maybe disco.

	"Hey, you there?"

	"Yeah."

	"What were you doing?"

	"I don't know."

	"Will you do it again?"

	"Probably"

	I finally sit up, my respite is over. I answer what I have been hiding from. It's a bed, it's a blanket, it's a pillow, it is all but the peace I had found. Breaking the concrete in my neck, I radially move my head left and right; one is a wall, and one is the following. Unfinished concrete walls, with the holes found in the architecture department's building and the stairwell of the electrical engineering building. There's a drawer right near my hand, a hand by my waist, a waist that is near a pillow, a pillow supporting my back, my back which is on a wall, a wall that has a closed window big enough to put the drawer through a drawer right near my hand, a hand by my waist, a waist that is near a pillow, a pillow supporting my back, my back which is on a wall, a wall that has a closed window big enough to put the drawer through a drawer right near my hand, a hand by my waist, a waist that is near a pillow, a pillow supporting my back, my back which is on a wall, a wall that has a closed window big enough to put the drawer through a drawer right near my hand, a hand by my waist, a waist that is near a pillow, a pillow supporting my back, my back which is on a wall, a wall that has a closed window big enough to put the drawer through. There are two doors at the corner at the furthest point from me. One is wood, shining at me with the bulb that hangs above, waiting for me to expire for an autopsy. The other is made of a glass so polished that it doesn't reflect, and I can see the linoleum floor on the other side. Next to the glass door is a single-size table and a chair, which are simple and geometrical, brown but with no texture. $600 from a catalog $400 in person. There is also the negative space entity from before, the one who woke me, the one who asked if it'll happen again.

	"When was the last time you ate?" It asks me.

	"I don't know?" I say back

	"Do you feel hungry?" I ask me

	"I...I don't know what hunger feels like." I say back.

	"I'll make something because I'm hungry. Keep yourself entertained by asking yourself more things." It says back to me.

	"Okay."