01.01.2026

“Every time that I stare into the sun.”

Courtney Love, 1995

This publication’s been in the works for some time and finally it’s here, materialised, come to fruition. And with this newfound fruit, I suppose I’m to cook something. The issue I’m facing is that I have no idea what to cook. I know the ingredients, I know them well, each and every one of them, but I don’t know what to do with any of them. I don’t even really have any sketches, but I can see the colours on my palette.

You see, unlike my co-editor, I don’t write in this style in my free time. I do write – either little wordplay things or my own personal notes on each day – just not like this. As you can probably gather from any form of comparison between our opening pieces, he’s a trained pen, he is a scalpel, and I am a pair of tongs.

Hopefully, confidence in my ability to convey meaning via the written word will become a blossoming feature of my writing for this publication. If not, I suppose I will simply continue to ache and groan with every scratched remark.

I have spent 22 years consuming, 10 or so in a truly cognisant manner, ever since I became sentient sometime in 2016. Sometimes I feel I’m burning my eyes out. That’s sort of how the tagline – accessing excess, exceeding access – came to mind. I’d been up all night leaning on the windowsill, and maybe I’ll elaborate more on that someday.

I’ve got this tendency to devour things, information really, and culture, from anywhere I can get it. I’m not sure where this habit comes from. People work alright, but the internet is where the real buffet is. It’s immense, folks.

I could, at this point, offer as best of a total recall as I can, throw out reference upon reference, almost like the opening sequence of a film – starring…

But if I’m honest, that feels rather too exposing for me. I prefer to breadcrumb trail those around me, even if they aren’t paying attention. A bit like how I prefer telling jokes that aren’t funny, and then laughing internally at the responses they receive – the joke isn’t the joke, as insufferably juvenile as that practice might sound.

And anyway, you can’t really name colours can you?

So, after trying unsuccessfully to bleed the stone that is my brain, I figured I’d just be honest and open this whole thing with an admission of my own lack of ideas. The slate is a polished mirror, and all I can see is myself. The canvas, on the other hand, is thick and white, and I can see nothing through its pale and fibrous complexion.

“Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.”

William Shakespeare, 1599