Dessert for Genocidaires: VI

The climax is slapstick gone rancid: the feast smears across the face, no longer dessert but grotesque mask. The party trick collapses into tragedy; the birthday becomes a wake. The sweet turns sour, the joke turns into bruise, the shared ritual curdles into lonely exhibitionism.

And in the end, nothing remains but a bitter aftertaste and a mirror you’d rather not look into. Because the question won’t go away: what does life weigh when it’s compressed into pixels? How many smashed bodies make one viral clip?

• Egon MonsivAIs

Photo of a photo by Tessa Fansa.