There is something at work in the world that has learned to eat art; not to destroy it outright, which would at least be legible, but to digest it slowly, to process it into a substance that resembles art closely enough to satisfy the appetite while providing none of the actual nutrition. We stand with humble defiance in the shadow of its vast capacity to manufacture desire at scale, to make the engineered feel chosen, to circulate the simulacrum so thoroughly that the question of an original ceases to feel urgent or even quite real.

Western Classics is committed to the laborious, necessary, and not-entirely-sane endeavor of retracing the genealogy of Western thought from Plato to the present on the theory that you cannot see where you are standing until you have found the floor; and the giants’ backs upon which we stand today are far too tall for us to see the ground. If we cannot think critically about how we think, perhaps, then we are nothing more than the system’s raw material, meant for processing its own ends on its own behalf. Okay, probably something more than that, but definitely at least that.

The chicken to this EGG, the OG group. A tight-knit enclave of thinkers, dreamers, weavers, story-tellers, magickers, music-makers, and clowns whose intellectual pursuits are organically and democratically tied to the threads that emerge in our lives. We ride the currents of synchronicity & symbol and tend to quit our jobs and roam the farthest corners of the Earth in pursuit of designs that only gods could comprehend. The hottest, kindest, smartest, sweetest angels on this Earth (present company notwithstanding; meaning YOU, dear reader, yes you – you are also counted among the hottest, kindest, smartest, sweetest angels on this Earth).