The Black Mint

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Write to me not

on September 14, 2026

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End with grace

Above all, beauty begs to be admired, and vanity longs to be placated. There shall remain records of the gods and immortals on limestones and craved tombs, through the hands that laboured and bled – hands meticulously guided by the whims of something eerily familiar that since become impossible to comprehend; much like the act of mindfulness with no awareness of the mind which governs the practice of survival. Such revelations are shocking in nature, yet tend to stultify the self that – in a way, fit the reptilian nature at best – of a fractured piece from the crust of perfection that deformed its own beauty in awe of better protection, froze its own heartbeat in return for bigger prey, and clipped its own wings in spite of the boundless reign over the skies. It was luck really, that somehow revived beauty, a sort of menacing gleam in the eyes and with any shade of the rainbow ever imagined. Before this, it was unspeakable that Creation was flawed to ...

Big bug

There was no bug that Kitty could not fix, except for this one that has been staring back at her for the past 12 hours. And it was not even a clever problem worth solving, but rather a careless error that one of the interns input, no doubt thinking that it was a clever move that saved them tons of manual coding, not realizing that any subsequent codes after that error were useless until someone could figure out a way to rewrap them in a workable group, or risk dragging the entire office to pull all-nighters before the client finds out. Kitty crunched line after line, reloading and retying to no avail. She could feel the shock and horror from the online forum of strangers where she presented her scenario for help. The feedback received was not constructive, accusing even, of deception and vibe coding. She turned to ChatGPT then, and gave up shortly after multiple corrections of facts – hard, important, serious facts – that were treated like suggestions on w...

Home sweet home

I know of a place where the walls are sugar-coated and the floors are swirled; the doors boarded up and the windows tinted with rain. Light pours in but only to cast shadows of the silent thunderstorms ahead. None could forsee, in any way possible, under such gayness and heat, but what consents the imaginable to exist is not the will of logic, but the sense of melodrama, the longing for a foreign scenery or an unyielding path, where the world’s malaise to your uniqueness becomes a delight relished in secret. It’s where the beanies hung to dry, the tail wagged in front of mirrors, and the blazers perfectly pressed in the closet somewhere safe. Such is the place called home, shrunk by the coldness of the blazing bonfires, fed to feed the worthy, fed to birth the hungry.

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