› lyrics

‹ lyrics

Stuck in traffic
Hot sunburn
Sunglasses scratched
Bed too firm

Wi-Fis slow
The tap smells bad
Plastic beach
Phone screen is cracked

Funny how it all feels wrong
Have things been right for way too long?

All the hands you never see
Keep things running quietly

What does it mean, to live like a king?

That shirts from a sweatshop
Your drivers been at it since 4
Someone else makes the bed and cleans the floor
Laundry comes back folded
Coffee’s already poured
Someone was here before you woke
Wiping handles on doors

What does it mean, to live like a king?

› idea and narrative

‹ idea and narrative

About inequality but especially how, despite that its most visible at the very top, also exists relatively at every level. This was particularly evident to me visiting bali but could be experienced many places. We always look up and want for more. Less often do we look down and appreciate what we have.

Furthermore, its easy to point fingers upwards and say "they have so much they should give more away" and then use that as justification to forego similar generosity all the way down.

Why are we so self-centered? Why is it hard to give back? I suppose its because the world is hard. When you never know if you might have some massive healthcare expense you can barely cover, its hard to justify generosity and almost everyone could find themselves in that situation or worse.

each person weighs their own fleeting joys against the cost of giving. In a world where life feels uncertain and short, the temptation to guard what little comfort we have makes true generosity a hard, unfamiliar choice

AI help distilling this:

Inequality runs deeper than headlines or palaces; it’s mirrored in every rung, as each of us measures up, rarely down. We crave what’s out of reach and absolve ourselves, believing that generosity is a luxury for those above us, while fear and uncertainty make it hard to share from wherever we stand.

At each rung, the core psychological brake on generosity is a mix of perceived scarcity and relative insecurity. People don’t measure generosity against absolute need, but against what they feel they might lose versus what they see others have. The instinct to self-preserve—fed by comparison, uncertainty about the future, and the deep-down worry that life’s rewards are finite and fragile—makes us frame giving as a personal risk rather than a communal act. In other words: what holds us back is not just anxiety, but the powerful sense that any comfort is precarious, and that we're always closer to falling behind than leaping ahead.

Narrative I settled on:
1. First world problems
2. Reveal the invisible exploitation we take for granted

› object writing

‹ object writing

wrote some but didn't really use it at all this week. Sometimes I have AI generate some as inspiration for things I've not personally experienced like living like actual royalty. I tried to imagine it and wrote my own first:

Wake up to velvet in shades of lavender with gold trim. The light glistens through the stained glass and shines on the various set jewels. Upon rising, many muster to offload whatever efforts would add strife to your morning. The scent of fresh breakfast prepared over the rustling of the hired company behind the affair. Since the weather is good, the meal spread is enjoyed on the patio with a sweeping view of the immaculate grounds punctuated by grand columns that meet deep red tile.

Then the AI's

1. The King
The silk at the inside of his elbow is cool where the morning air finds it. Someone has already opened the shutters; the courtyard smells faintly of orange peel and wet limestone from the overnight rinsing. He tastes clove before coffee—someone burned incense too close to the dining hall again. A spoon rings lightly against porcelain as it’s set down in front of him; it’s never the same pitch twice.
Leather creaks as he shifts on the cushioned bench. The upholstery sighs under weight it was made to remember. Beeswax and polish hang in the hallways, warm and sweet, fighting a losing battle with the sharper tang of ink drying somewhere nearby. A messenger’s boots drag dust across marble. He hears it before he sees it—the fine grit skittering in hesitant arcs.
There’s a low murmur from the gardens where gardeners snap stems with thumbnail pressure, quick and clean. Metal glints through hedges as someone prunes. The sun reaches his knuckles before his face. It’s hotter than yesterday.
At midday the crown leaves a shallow dent in the velvet stand when he sets it down. His scalp prickles with trapped heat. Wine smells like oak barrels and iron. Somewhere in the rafters a pigeon flaps once, twice, settling.
Night comes with the scratch of a quill beyond a closed door. Someone coughs into a sleeve.

2. The Steward (Upper-Middle)
He wakes before the bells and lies still, feeling the wool blanket itch at the back of his neck. The plaster above his bed has a hairline crack that smells faintly chalky when the room warms. The floor is cold through his socks, even in this season.
Bread crust flakes onto the ledger when he eats standing up. Butter leaves a crescent moon on the margin of yesterday’s numbers. The window sticks before it opens; his palms pick up the faint resin smell from the frame. A cart rattles over cobbles below—he knows which one by the hollow knock of its loose wheel.
Ink stains his middle finger no matter how often he washes it. Soap stings where the skin has split near the nail. The office carries a constant stew of parchment dust, sealing wax, and the ghost of last week’s lamp smoke. He straightens a stack of petitions until the edges align perfectly. They slide against each other with a dry whisper.
Lunch is something salted. The chair complains when he leans back in it. He presses his tongue to a molar that’s begun to ache when the air turns cool in the afternoons.
At dusk he oils the hinges himself. The rag comes away black. Someone is practicing lute in a distant room—slowly, the same phrase again and again.

3. The Servant
The mattress is straw and it rustles like wind when he turns. His blanket smells faintly of the stable even after the washing. Dawn leaks in under the door before anyone speaks.
Cold water shocks his wrists awake. The pump handle leaves a smear of rust on his palm. Soap is sharp and lye-bitter; it dries into a tight film across his knuckles. He carries the basin with both hands so it won’t slosh onto his shoes.
The kitchen is steam and onion skins. Something sweet is baking but not for him. He learns the rooms by their temperatures—the east hall always warm first, the north corridor holding last night’s chill like a secret. Candles drip onto his fingers when he snuffs them too quickly. Wax cools into ridges he peels away later.
His shoulders buzz by noon. Linen smells clean until it doesn’t. The broom’s bristles whisper against stone in a rhythm that doesn’t quite match his steps.
Supper is thin and hot. He blows on it anyway. The spoon has a bend in it that presses against his lip each time.
At night he listens to footsteps above him, then to the silence after they stop.