that aesthetic framed my life
headlights go up at night
she didn't fit that brand
so i had to swerve right
impeded on that bike
treads weave through that line
got drunk on the lower east side
and i broke up with her like vine
small diatribe for my gear though
flight case all clear though
walked past that checkpoint
aight she not really do fearful
now i'm on that gilder
wondering where her career goals
fielding all them emails
but i'd rather hit clear though
tell me what you need x4
i already know she going
but i ain't trying to leave
now she with the opps
and the phone is on a charge
sipping that chianti
with the candles as a presage
victorian ceilings
the design is a medley
you can keep the first black steampunk
i got freckles on a israeli
(indigenous background since paleolithic)
you seem to po it all
when you think you know it all
popped a seal went to a meeting
still showed acumen and resolve
no back pedaling
know the future
moving forward
that's natural
before i left
she said i love you
i said but i can't have you
i pray to god that she try help me
but she only care about selfies
and destroyed pencil jeans
and carrying the purse with the sheltie
she said i'm trying to make it
unhinged
lenses
and forensic
you know she saw
one episode
now she stabler
on a sentry
(contessa stuto — bridge/outro)
Drag Cursor/Finger to view Drag Cursor/Finger to turn Wheel/Two fingers to zoom Interact with cursor/finger
The PALETTE we build in life is nothing but the sum of our choices.
Some paint in long, dramatic strokes—drawn-out breakups, theatrical exits, moments etched in memory like neon streaks across wet pavement. Others create something softer, something seamless—the kind of perfect endings your grandparents once had, the ones that seemed to write themselves.
And then, there's vyle. A cyberpunk in the age of dating apps, moving through a world built on curated profiles and algorithmic longing, where love and aesthetic become indistinguishable.
The city center.
He moves through it on his motorbike/lightcycle, headlight swiveling up, slicing through the dark like a question left unanswered. The night hums around him, the architecture of steel and glass reflecting back pieces of himself, fragments of the past still lingering.
A woman—the kind you meet in an upscale members club, drawn to his Chicago accent, his reckless energy, the way he exists outside of her world yet fits so perfectly into the idea of it.
For a moment, it's something.
But then—the weight of perception, the shallowness of a world where people aren't chosen, but curated.
She leaves—for a lesser steampunk aesthetic, for an image, for something closer to the "view" she has always imagined herself inside. A Paris Hilton/Kim Kardashian archetype in pencil jeans, a toy cup dog stuffed in a Birkin bag, a lifestyle pre-written, just waiting for someone to step into the role.
And yet—she can't fully let go.
Almost a hundred emails flood his inbox, a slow burn of fixation, an unspoken need to still exist in his orbit.
She acts out in public—drunken theatrics, staged jealousy, a performance meant to be seen.
vyle., in turn, moves in the opposite direction—into the arms of someone else, someone who stands outside the script.
An Indigenous Israeli woman, a counterpoint to the curated life left behind. A woman with roots deeper than nations, someone untethered from the demands of artificial perfection, a reminder that not all love exists inside a frame.
And he isn't alone.
Contessa Stuto is with him, the architect of NYC's underground, the chaos conductor, the one who always knew how to push culture forward before it even realized it was moving.
She tells the stories—the history of vyle. in New York, the parties where he played, the connections that shaped entire movements, how she linked him to people like Shayne Oliver and the designers who made the city itself.
The night stretches ahead, the city still alive with possibility.
Some stories are written in neon, some in shadows.
And some are just waiting to be rewritten.