No harmonies. No choreography.
Just pixels falling apart.
I took some Bitcoin Punks.
Not to steal them.
But to make them short-circuit.
I glitched them.
Not to make them pretty.
But to make them scream.
I’m not the author.
I’m the glitch.
I sign nothing.
I claim nothing.
I distort. I disturb. I dissolve.








The author evaporates.
Not just in art. Everywhere.
In music. In code. In the street.
You publish → you vanish.
I let the protocol speak instead of me.
Each block is a beat. A jolt.
It shifts the work.
It removes more of me.
It lets something else live in my place.
I’m no longer here.
Only the noise remains.
That’s what New Punks On The Block is.
Not a tribute.
Not a quote.
A contamination.