Manifesto 3:16 [1]: Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads

Take the mock literary cycles. (1).mp3

Here is the plain claim. Johnny Pulp and The Lemonheads (2).mp3

Take the lyric blackout albums.mp3

Look again at that small circle .mp3

Take the mock literary cycles.  (1).mp3

Call the roll once more. A generator .mp3

Stewart Home, Vilde Bjerke Torset and Audrey Szasz.mp3

Turn to Vilde Bjerke Torset.  (1).mp3

Now to Audrey Szasz.mp3

Consider more closely (1).mp3

If there is a pedagogy here it looks like.mp3

Sleeve Note

Here is the plain claim. Johnny Pulp and the Lemonheads at 3:16am use artificial intelligence as scandal. The generator writes the tunes with no talent; it plagiarises the cultural average by design; it returns a haze of chords and looped patterns that sound like everything and nothing. This is not an accident; it is a choice. The music is deliberately banal. The rare flirtations with the strange are so faint that they feel like polite winks rather than ruptures; that restraint is the perverse gesture. In Bataille’s sense the perversity lies in spending the listener’s attention on what refuses originality; on what refuses mastery; on what refuses the obligated surprise that culture rewards. The machine gives the most ordinary bed. Over that bed the lyrics pour as excess: embarrassing; unrefined; shameless; sometimes tender; sometimes ridiculous; always beyond good taste. The work becomes a ceremony of uselessness. The generator squanders clichés; the writer squanders feelings and images. The result is not a product; it is sovereign play.Bataille is the right measure for this. His general economy is the simple but decisive thought that life produces more energy than utility can absorb; surplus demands expenditure; if it is not wasted knowingly in feasts; gifts; sacrifices; erotic uprisings; it returns as violence without aim. The sacred is the name he gives to intensities that cannot be redeemed by usefulness; intensities that resist being recycled as pedagogy. Sovereignty is the power to waste with open eyes; to accept embarrassment; to risk shame; to spend without counting. When you measure Johnny Pulp by that rule the picture clarifies. The artificial intelligence track is a restricted economy instrument; it is meant for efficiency; it is meant for safe imitation; it is meant for polite background. Johnny Pulp takes that instrument and forces it to serve general economy; the generator becomes an engine of waste; a machine that prints the average so the words can burn on top of it. No rescue; no refinement; no countersignature that will return the excess as a moral.The corpus at 3:16am confirms the method. More than sixty entries sit there as albums; suites; singles; short plays with songs attached. The pattern repeats and deepens. A page arrives with a title that could be a note on a fridge and a small block of sleeve text that refuses to behave. Hunters reverse into their traps. Camel and crow leave a stench in the air. A leg by a pool becomes an omen. Dawn is decisive essence. None of this begs to be explained; none of it performs nonsense as a trick; it is expenditure. Then come the links: mp3 files; no banners; no metadata beyond a title; the machine has laid down something that sounds like every practice room in the world. The mismatch is the altar.Take the runs that announce themselves as ballads. A suite carries names that could be pulled from any second hand jukebox: wings of sorrow; owl in the night; burn us down; written in words. The music offers the gentlest default strum and throb; it will not beautify the text; it will not provide the moral of craftsmanship; it sits there like a cheap candle. The lyric then steps out and spends itself. It repeats an obvious line until it becomes hard to bear; it turns a banal sentence into a dare; it courts the blush. Embarrassment is not a flaw here; it is the rite by which the social skin is pierced. Culture has taught us to hide that heat behind irony; this project asks you to sit in the heat. That is Bataille’s threshold.Take the lyric blackout albums. The sleeve notes swell into purple; mirrors refuse to reflect; bodies move as if they were already ghosts; lovers appear as ivy and hands and breath; the words climb toward a summit they cannot reach. The tunes remain stubbornly obedient to the generator’s mean. No lift; no learned dissonance; no gear change that signals depth. The writer splurges; the machine refuses to help; the listener pays. A Derridean supervisor would intervene at this point; he would praise the hazard; he would place it under a programme; he would ask for responsibility and a countersignature. Johnny Pulp does none of that. The page offers no apology; no pedagogy; no frame that redeems the mess. That refusal is the sovereignty.Take the pulp apocalypse vein. Entries that riff on literature and philosophy while behaving like trash. Sartre as lizard; Camus as crash; Lacan as fairground ringmaster; Foucault as machine. The joke is blunt; the blasphemy is cheerful; the learning is squandered as if it were small change. This is not disrespect for knowledge; it is the potlatch of knowledge; capital spent for joy; not for return. Stewart Home would nod at this: his plagiarist manifestos and pulp satires treat originality as a superstition and theft as a rite. Audrey Szasz would not flinch: her page burns erotic charge in prose that refuses refinement and refuses permission. Vilde Torset brings a feral clarity to scenes that seem too raw for a lesson; the writing wastes caution and finds a strict beauty in the act. This is the family resemblance that matters: writers who accept excess as a duty; who strip the craft of its alibis; who risk shame without the shield of theory.Take the money suites. Tracks named for cash; for order; for work. The audio is as cheap as the theme is grand. The album refuses the glamour of critique; it will not put on the robes of a concept. It stands there like a note shoved under a door. It reminds you that a sacred waste can happen on a plastic instrument. It refuses to flatter political feeling. It spends instead.Take the municipal pop runs. Titles drawn from everyday scenes; hospital chapels; supermarket romance; the bus after rain; a friend at a bar. The music sits in bland chords and soft pads; the voice puts ordinary words under pressure until they crack. The whole thing courts the accusation of bad taste and invites it inside. Bataille’s thought allows you to read that choice without running to the referee. Bad taste can be a gate to the sacred because it disobeys the etiquette of improvement. The album becomes a little feast of wrongness shared by whoever stays long enough.Take the mock literary cycles. A page gestures at Shakespeare or Rilke or a schoolroom canon. The track names quote half a line and then stop. The generator carries the same calm pulse. The lyric refuses to rise to the occasion. The album declines the ambition to be literary. It opts instead to spend its little store of seriousness on the blush. There is a childlike courage here. It says: I will fail in front of you and the failure will bind us more honestly than your praise.The distribution method matters. The pages are free. There is no label; no shopfront; no slow drip campaign that turns scarcity into prestige. The abundance is a position. Posting again and again is not a plea for attention; it is a vow to keep the fire alive. The repetition is not laziness; it is a rite. Mark E Smith taught that lesson across decades: always different; always the same; a fidelity to a grind that becomes liturgy by duration. Here the machine handles the monotonous prayer and the writer howls. Together they make a mass for the small hours.The presence of artificial intelligence is not an incidental novelty. It is the doctrinal hinge. The cultural dream is to deploy these systems to save labour; to deliver polished work faster; to scale talent; to imitate styles without paying the price those styles exact. Johnny Pulp inverts the dream. The machine is not there to produce excellence; it is there to guarantee banality; it is there to remove the alibi of craft; it is there to scandalise the duty to be original. The generator is a plagiarism engine in the strictest sense: it plagiarises the average of a genre; it resettles the detritus of common progressions. By choosing it and by refusing to fight it the project turns plagiarism into a ritual. The theft has no target and no victim; it is theft as ceremony; theft as a way to honour the superabundance of language that follows. In Bataille’s vocabulary the restricted economy tool is torn from its office and drafted into general economy; what should have saved time is made to waste it; what should have served polish is made to hum beneath a flood. That is why the reticence about novelty is not timidity; it is the cleverest perversity available; the culture expects weirdness on demand; the project gives it the insult of the average.The lyrics deliver the other half of the scandal. They are excessive; they are unrefined; they are embarrassing; they are often beautiful in a way that beauty no longer admits. They lean on repetition where a workshop would demand variation. They rely on purple where a teacher would demand restraint. They remain painfully literal when knowingness would offer cover. They love the adolescent phrasing that remembers first love and first grief as the only events that mattered. They print sleeve notes as if they were confessions; they refuse the clever preface that would rescue them. They crash into prayer without ceremony. This is pure Bataillean play: a consent to spend life in words without the promise of return; a risk that the page will look foolish in the morning; a wager that foolishness can be sacred.Look again at that small circle of kindred writers. Stewart Home treats originality as a hoax and plagiarism as material; he spends the dignity of authorship in a torrent of anti art and pop sabotage; he laughs and the laugh is the binding. Audrey Szasz writes body and power into texts that resist all good behaviour; she will not let language hide what people do; she spends propriety; she spends decorum; she leaves a page that burns its reader. Vilde Torset writes like someone who has resolved never to flinch again; there is a clean risk in the scenes; there is embarrassment without apology; there is a sovereign decision to keep the door open. These are not gathered here to make a movement; they simply mark a climate in which Johnny Pulp breathes.It is tempting to claim that there are also smarter moments; glitches where the generator accidentally produces a nice chord change; fragments where the melody wanders and finds strangeness; short shocks where the percussion stutters in a way that feels like thought. The temptation should be resisted as a criterion. Those accidents do appear; they are not the point. The point is the refusal to aim for them. The scandal is the insistence on the ordinary. The perversity lies in staying with the average long enough for it to become a drug. The courage lies in writing too much over too little and calling that asymmetry a feast.A deeper look across the sixty plus shows sub genres that all serve waste. There are calendars of despair where each track is a sentence like a night thought; the machine lays a pad; the voice reads a line; the file ends; the next file begins; nothing accumulates except a mood; the mood becomes a common room where anyone can sit. There are error page albums where a broken embed or a blank box sits beside a list of songs; the brokenness is not fixed; it is incorporated; it refuses the managerial itch. There are remaster jokes; a lo fi track is labelled remastered as if the word itself could polish the floor; the jest wastes pride; the song remains itself. There are prayer loops that repeat a plea until the plea cleanses itself of meaning; the generator supports the chant like a cheap harmonium; the lyric becomes breath; the breath becomes a rite. There are mock radio collections that sound like municipal pop from a town that does not exist; they refuse to be charismatic; they ask for patience; they dare you to want more. All of these sub genres are ways to spend attention; none of them are ways to win.Read this against the puritan ethic that haunts so much cultural production. The puritan celebrates risk and immediately supervises it; he calls for play and immediately grades it; he asks artificial intelligence to be a quiet assistant that helps the class pass with merit. Here the assistant goes rogue; here the assistant reveals that there was never a secret; here the class is dismissed; here the night begins. If embarrassment is your outrage you are in the right place. The project answers with a blush and a shrug and a new file.The final question is not whether this is good music. The final question is whether this is honest art. Honest in Bataille’s sense means willing to waste. Willing to use a talentless machine because talent is a fetish that often keeps us from spending what matters. Willing to print a terrible line because courage sometimes looks terrible before it looks true. Willing to post again tomorrow because sovereignty is not a single act; it is a practice. The scandal of uselessness is the ethic. The machine plagiarism is the method. The banal tune is the chosen instrument. The lyric excess is the fuel. The embarrassment is the heat. The result is play that does not seek permission.Call the roll once more. A generator that refuses to be a genius; a writer who refuses to be refined; a library of small albums that refuse to be rare; a lineage that runs through Home and Torset and Szasz because each in a different register accepts excess as law; a patron saint in Bataille whose thought clears the fog from this practice. You can close the window now or you can click one of the ugly little links and sit through a minute that will not pay you back. If you stay you will have taken part in a rite. If you leave you will have done the sensible thing. Neither choice will be graded. Only one will remind you that art is still allowed to waste.Stewart Home, Vilde Bjerke Torset and Audrey Szasz as writers whose work courts the sacred of excess. The editorial voice does this without academic hedging. It names waste. It names embarrassment. It names expenditure. It places each of these figures inside a Bataillean climate rather than inside a polite lineage. The result is unusually clear. We are shown what a general economy of art looks like when it is written for readers who prefer fever to etiquette.Begin with Stewart Home. The review of Fascist Yoga frames Home as an iconoclast who strips wellness culture of its self flattering myths. The piece opens by calling modern yoga sick and argues that the illness is not a recent accident. It says the rot is historical. It presents Home’s claim that the yoga scene carries authoritarian longings beneath a mask of peace. It presses the point and says that countercultural fascism thrives on essentialist fantasies and guru hierarchies that reject evidence while performing healing. The coup is simple. The review recasts rituals of purity as rituals of power. The propaganda of the body is understood as sacralised politics. This is classic Bataillean demystification. The sacred is not denied. It is dragged back to base material. The sun salutation comes to resemble a salute. The healing circle comes to resemble a cult. The body becomes a theatre of sovereignty rather than of health. This is how 3:16 reads Home. The reading is exact and unafraid. It identifies the sacrificial economy beneath a bourgeois leisure. It calls it by its name. It does not fidget. It declares that Home asks whether suburbia’s rituals look more like Nuremberg than the spa brochure allows. It makes this case in plain sentences and leaves the reader to feel the heat. It is hard to miss the echo of Bataille’s insistence that purity separates and dominates and must be profaned in order to free the sacred from the police. The review keeps that pressure on every line. It feels like a sermon against purification and for revelation. It earns the right to be blunt by being precise. The brief asides on She’s My Witch sharpen the same instinct through fiction. The piece names Maria as a witch who wakes the narrator to his past. It describes a book powered by objects that transform. It claims that magic here justifies life. It claims that the tale transgresses limits of time, space, gender and cash. It praises a silence regarding the dead that is broken by the book’s rhythm. It quotes a dark aphorism and an unorthodox credo. Death is an angle. Magic supersedes psychology. The language is not coy. The critic is telling us that Home’s pulp does what ritual must do when it refuses consolation. The witch is not a trope. She is a conduit for expenditure. The object in her hand is a dowry of force. There is a return to the sacred here that is not churchly. Objects glow. Speech tears at the veil. Past and present marry. The review recognises this and answers with gratitude. It is a Benediction for a book that knows that transgression keeps a culture alive.The Art School Orgy piece places Home inside the debris field of Lettrism and pulp. It invokes Isou’s fragmentation and concrete operations. It then states that Torset and her Scrypth circle carry that fractured visual poetry forward. The review claims that Home chisels chiseling. It states that he writes highly organised and syntactically correct pulp in order to refuse the bourgeois cult of innovative genius. This is a neat reversal. Formal cleanliness becomes a tactic of sabotage. The aura of genius is mocked. The prose is straight. The idea is radical. The review supports this by quoting a depraved institutional scene and by recognising a method. The point is not to add more novelty to a market of novelty. The point is to strip novelty of its prestige and to spend it. It is an economy lesson written in pulp. It rejects scarcity and shows abundance. It replaces worship with laughter. The reviewer reads that move correctly and applauds it. This portrait of Home is reinforced elsewhere on the site. An interview about the role of iconoclasts in culture says 3:AM has been tracking Stewart Home because he coalesces political and aesthetic concerns in ways that challenge common sense. The guest agrees and encourages the tracking. The editorial stance is consistent. Home is valuable as a destroyer of decorum. He brings critique down to the level of bodies and rituals. He runs a current from the sacred to the street. Turn to Vilde Bjerke Torset. The site repeatedly frames her poetry as a ritual of things. The brief aside on Apollinaire and Other Horses calls her a poet caught in the act. It praises a sequence of miniatures that divide and simulate. It describes poems that stage both certainty and uncertainty of objects. It quotes a line about cows and horses. It notes a prosthesis of drawing that proves a gap. It delights in a palpable medium of paper, ink and pencil. It reads the book as an outlined apparatus that invites and refuses the mind. It says the poems exploit and discharge the reader. It calls the style a cosmic sprezzatura that sews humans and horses together. The link to Bataille’s animal sacred is immediate. There is a return to the continuum between human and beast. There is an insistence that the poem be a regime contrary to everything around it. There is an insistence on residue and burning. The reviewer concludes by saying that a poet should do that to a reader. Set a trap. Leave a residue. Burn. The vocabulary is Bataillean in everything but the proper name. The reader is invited to consent to ruin and to gratitude. The Dante, Bataille, Beckett piece on Swallowing Feathers names the lineage openly. It calls the poems petals of an anguished rose scattered over a feast table. It says these are poems after the catastrophe. It threads the voice through Paradiso and through a Franciscan scandal. It stresses giving away reality. It describes boundaries blurred between physical and spiritual. It names communitas as a speculative myth and a scandalous utopia. It reads the poems as liminal life and as a parody of law and institution. It sees a double world that shimmers. This is not a clever game of reference. It is an attempt to write a sacred scholarship. The reviewer reaches for Dante because the poems demand a theology. The reviewer reaches for Bataille because the poems demand a theory of sacrifice and feast. The result is a frame that is equal to the work. The language is sober and ecstatic. The critic believes in poetry as event. The piece makes that belief usable. A shorter note confirms the pattern. It says that in Torset something necessarily does not exist. It describes her as managing absence rather than faking it. It praises nouns that refer to uncreated things and events that never simply occur once. It speaks of masks. It describes a performance with a horse head. It says the voice is small and transparent to the point of ridiculousness. It calls the spectacle both distressing and curious. The reading is modest and sharp. It is a description of a sacrificial mask worn by a poet who keeps faith with nothingness as a subject. The horse returns. The mask returns. The absence is managed by iteration. This is a plain description of a practice that places the poem at the threshold of the sacred. It makes sense as part of the same climate. There is also curation that crosses boundaries. The Art School Orgy review links Home’s chiseling to Torset’s visual poetry and to a broader contemporary field of asemic and concrete experiment. Torset is not presented as a decorative modernist. She is named as a node in a living economy of waste and recombination. Her magazine is named. Her practice is folded into a line that runs from Lettrism to now. The result is a scene rather than a series of isolated books. The scene is permitted to be deranged and sacred. Now to Audrey Szasz. The site introduces her with a title that sounds like an ordeal. If you can bear this then you will pass the test. The voice follows through and says she is a novelist of filth, of missing time, of leather and whips, of masturbation and party insignia. It says she lowers the tone. It says she repeats with mastery. It says she cancels natalist fantasies. It names sacrifice, expenditure and waste as her true subjects. It says she writes the conspicuous consumption of agonies. It says there will be no return. The critic then makes the theoretical claim explicit. It says she combines a playful Ruskin Gothic with Bataille’s expenditure. It defines the Gothic as a magnificent enthusiasm that prefers fruitless labour to idle market success. It defines Bataille’s expenditure as excess without return. It quotes a snarling sexual fragment. It quotes a passage from her work that reads like a rite of dirt. It calls her writing slagheaps and pyramids. It says the style is for stinking earth. It says she does not ask to what end. She asks when to end. This is a rare case of a review that names the doctrine and shows it in use. It refuses excuse. It embraces horror as sacred. It reads sex and atrocity as intensities that cannot be redeemed by edification. It says as much and then proves it with quotation. The piece continues and folds Szasz into European catastrophe. It invokes Ravensbrück and the Bloodlands. It names Soviet terror and Nazi extermination. It connects this history to Szasz’s characters. It calls them live dead. It says there are no events because everything happens. It reads the prose as a slow architecture that refuses circulation. It places Szasz with Ballard and de Sade. It identifies precision as a container for desolate psychology. It rescues none of it with piety. It insists on the ash. It insists on hyperpatina. It insists on the rust. The critic’s vocabulary is deliberately physical. It keeps returning to skin, to scrap, to drains. It keeps the reader in the scene. It does not allow escape into praise. It holds you in the waste until the theory of waste becomes obvious. This is how 3:16 makes Bataille practical. It writes criticism that behaves like a rite. A pattern emerges across these writers as the site stages them. Home is the iconoclast who profanes pseudo sanctities. He takes the temple of wellness and shows the skull in its altar. He writes pulp straight and uses grammar as an instrument of sacrilege. He uses fiction to wake the dead and to let objects speak. Torset is the ritualist of absence and animal kinship. She writes miniatures that manipulate prosthesis, that sew horse and human, that accept reverence without religion. She stages masks and keeps the voice small so the rite can be heard. Szasz is the celebrant of filth and pain. She writes violence as a liturgy and keeps the line unadorned so that the ornament does not lie for us. The site makes these differences clear and then draws them into a single climate. The climate is general economy. It is a culture that acknowledges surplus, that spends it in art and ritual, that rejects the ethic of utility that keeps us timid and clean. The site believes this and shows it.The site also practices it. The tone is direct. The sentences do not hide behind the academy. The prose will risk purple when necessary. It will compare a book to petals on a feast table. It will call a ritual a scandal. It will speak the names of saints and killers and porn. It refuses the safety of a middle style. It asks the reader to read as an accomplice not as a monitor. It loves lists and images. It keeps the frame porous to myth and theology. It quotes and explains. It is not afraid of disgust. That editorial tone matters because it enacts the argument. A review that speaks of expenditure in clinical language betrays its subject. A review that spends its own heat honours it. 3:16 chooses heat. The choice is obvious in each of these pieces.Consider more closely how the reviews write embodiment. In the Home material the body is an argument. Yoga is not dismissed as a fad. It is indicted as a politics that has disguised itself as wellness. The posture becomes a prayer to authority. The guru becomes a priest of order. The breath becomes a sacrament of submission. The review enlarges the frame to include occult lineages and far right networks. It shows the past beneath the mat. It names Hopkins and networks. It refuses the naivety that treats a ritual of purity as innocent. This is a Bataillean move because it brings the sacred back to the political without removing the sacredness of the sacred. It profanes to save. In the Torset material the body is masked. The horse head reduces the human face and magnifies the voice of the rite. The small voice becomes an honest instrument. The performance teaches that scale is not a moral law. The tiny poem can hold a mythology. The cheap paper can carry a sacrament. The critic stays with the nouns. The critic stays with the subject of nothingness. It is a lesson in what a poem can be when it declines to explain. In the Szasz material the body is the scene. Skin opens. Girls are treated as scrap because history made them scrap. The prose does not fix them. It attends. The critic quotes a mask that allows breath but removes sight and hearing. It explains that judgment is washed off like weather on concrete. The reviewer keeps the imagery close to stone and metal. It refuses the angelic rescue that would turn atrocity into eloquence. This is the most demanding form of fidelity. It is writing that spends pity without buying redemption. The site is also careful about history. When it brings St Francis into Torset it refuses to turn her into a religious poet. It uses Francis to show a paradox. Giving away reality can be a pragmatic act. It can be a way to cut into legal fictions in order to make room for communitas. The review treats Francis as a myth that can be used rather than as a doctrine that must be obeyed. It makes a sacred history available to a secular poem. This is a good model for criticism. It keeps the tools sharp. When it brings Ballard and de Sade into Szasz it does not make a lineage chart. It makes a set of coordinates. Precision with cruelty. Container and event. Atrocity without catharsis. It brings twentieth century mass murder into view not to posture but to explain a sensibility. It credits Szasz with a world that was razed before she was born. It reads the style as a way to write in the ruins. It does not tidy that claim. It leaves it hard. When it brings Lettrism into Home it refuses the cult of novelty. It praises the update in asemic and concrete practice. It names Torset in that parade. It honours a tradition of damage by showing how it survives. It avoids nostalgia. It lets the debris live. This is a generous way to write about avant garde work. It fails only when the critic tries to make the reader love the old names. Here the critic lets the scene do the work. If there is a pedagogy here it looks like this. Treat art as expenditure. Treat criticism as accompaniment. Use theory as a torch not as a leash. Name the sacred where it appears. Refuse to save what wants to burn. Tell the reader what is at stake in the body and in the scene. Accept embarrassment. Do not lie about limits. If you see fascist longings in a wellness ritual then say so. If you see animal kinship in a poem then say so. If you see filth as a mode of truth then say so. Then quote. Then stop. Let the work do the rest.One last knot ties the three together. Each of them refuses the polite distribution of value that the restricted economy demands. Home refuses craft as pedigree. He shows how straight pulp can be an instrument of sabotage. He shows how grammar can fake you into a crisis. Torset refuses the big gesture. She returns to paper and pencil and the prosthesis of a sketch. She refuses to pretend that the poem must be an event of sense. She makes it an event of making. Szasz refuses decorum. She writes the body into waste and then keeps looking. The site understands that the refusal is not negativity. It is a gift. It spends reasons for writing. It gives strangers a place to feel shame and wonder without being graded.The site sometimes leans into a lyric tone in the reviews. It uses images in its own sentences. It refuses to drain the works in order to place them in categories. That will annoy a certain reader who wants a glossary. It will relieve a reader who wants to be treated as a partner in risk. The essays do not ask for trust. They invite a trial. Read the book. Sit with the performance. Bear the test. The reader is given a map to the edge. The reader is also given permission to step back.These pieces show what a Bataillean criticism for non specialists can look like. It does not require a library of references. It requires a few clear ideas that are lived. There is surplus. Surplus must be spent. The sacred is what happens when a culture spends without return. Embarrassment and filth belong to that spending because they strip away social lies. Law and doctrine can be parodied in order to make room for communion. Animals and objects can be admitted to the circle. After catastrophe one writes on paper with the care of a priest. After atrocity one writes without demanding that pain become elegant. A critic who believes this does not have to sell it. They can write a paragraph that feels it and trust the reader to see.Put the names in one place and close the book. Stewart Home profanes wellness and purifies pulp by wasting genius. Vilde Bjerke Torset writes objects and animals into rites of absence and grace. Audrey Szasz spends filth and horror without bargaining for meaning. 3:16 says these things plainly. The pieces accept that the sacred is still alive. The pieces accept that we will only find it if we stop pretending that art must always be useful. They accept that a reader can bear more than a teacher expects. They ask the reader to bear it. They ask gently and without apology.