Last week, I typed a single sentence into an AI generator. Seconds later, it gave me a poem. It was structured. Polished. Almost beautiful. And yet — it felt empty. No trace of a person behind it.     In the name of technological advancement, society has forged a profound paradox:  A machine can now compose a symphony without ever knowing love, or heartbreak or grief.   A machine can now draft an entire manuscript without a smudge of ink ever appearing on its hands.     If we continue down this path, the future will not simply lack intelligence. It will lack humanity.    Art has never been about speed....

Where or with whom do you feel safest? Is it at home, with friends, or with your parents? We'll revisit this question later. In this article, I will discuss Psalm 46. This is one of my favourite Psalms, if not my favourite, because of the message and comfort it holds. There’s also this group on Spotify called the ‘Sons of Korah’ who I think portray the meaning and tone of this Psalm really well, which is also why it’s one of my favourites. For some context, this Psalm was written as a song by a group of people called the Sons of Korah, not to be confused with the group on Spotify, which is still active, unlike the original writers...

Released on January 9th of this year, Zach Bryan dropped his 25-song album With Heaven on Top, his first release since 2024. Known for his stripped back sound and painfully honest lyrics, Zach sticks to what he does best, but this time it feels a little calmer and more settled. The album explores hope, identity, and reflection, but it does not feel forced or overly dramatic. Instead, the themes unfold naturally across the tracks. There are songs that centre on love and heartbreak, others that lean into small town roots and the weight of growing up, and a few that quietly question what success actually means and its effects. It feels like Zach...

This is the first of a series. Each short story is inspired by a music album. The following is inspired by ‘Modern Life is Rubbish’ by Blur.     Summer rain could freeze your toes. The clouds made it hard to tell if the sun had risen, but alarm clocks blared when they were told to, and watches stayed conveniently on wrists and out of a pickpocket’s reach if you were clever. A grey veil hung over the street that had more potholes than road. The car driving by splashed water from the curb onto you, the pedestrian. Overgrown grass nibbled at your calves from either side of the path and dribbled water down into your socks....

How can you be a man? Yes; how can I be a man, when I sent him to his grave. *** The night grew suddenly still. All night owls, tree branches creaking, critters rustling in the leaves, ceased. All but the moonlight’s somber embrace. Casting deep shadows upon the angular tombstones. Soft crunches of dead leaves grew louder as they echoed off the polished stone. A barren tree stood alone, solitary in this dreary morgue.  The geriatric tree twisted and warped on the saturated earth and in the endless night sky.  Moonlight carved through the tree’s crooked trunk, whitling a familiar face amongst the weathered bark. Long, gnarled branches...