laramzp.com

i just really love the internet

[laramzp]

Post-spam (2025)

probabilistic hallucinations,

visualized ideas with no necessary referent in the world.

STATUS FOREVER PENDING

This graphic cannot index an actual parcel.

Due to its bad graphic design it points toward spam (mail) as genre?

It indexes anticipation. Whereas the dhl name indexes logistics. The dhl is written long, there Is no logo wich we can tie to the parcel company we know. It’s not a caricature or a pastiche?

They simulate the indexical look of a mail while lacking its material trace.

. It does not share in being but in pattern.

It’s not ontologically bound to the world through light and causality;

it’s bound to data through resemblance

SYNTHETIC INDEXICALITY?

Its relation is statistical, not causal.

Indexed LIKELYHOOD

The feeling of arrival is enough.

The reaction to that feeling is the trace?? That is the index??

I was adressed?

Receipt of the attempt to abuse my anticipation ? Indexing towards that?

Indexing towards having been targeted, processed.

A synthetic indexicality still pointing towards the past

Which is interesting in its framework

Target me

Target I

Target you

[laramzp]

Cyberdelirium (2024)

Cyberdelirium is a digital poetry collection that reflects on a nostalgic vision of the 90s internet—an era defined by hope, freedom, and personal expression. This was an internet of people, not things, where users could shape their own corners of the web with a sense of individuality and creativity. The collection explores how different web aesthetics from that time influenced our perception of digital spaces and identities.

Presented on two iMac G3s within a staged artificial environment, the interactive poems invite viewers to explore the nostalgic allure of the early web while engaging with its history. Each poem is a fragment that probes the tension between human connection, expression, and the increasing corporatization of digital spaces.

Cyberdelirium asks viewers to consider how our relationship with the internet has changed over time—what we once worshiped as a tool of freedom and expression has, in many ways, become a space of identity loss and control.

Cyberdelirium underscores that the early internet was a fragmented and multifaceted space—one where individuality flourished, even as the seeds of the current, more centralized internet were being sown. The design choices are not merely decorative but serve as a commentary on how web architecture and layout shape our perception of the internet and our place within it.

The poems engage with themes of identity, connection, and memory within the digital space. The work asks viewers to consider the ways in which design shapes our online experiences and to reflect on what has been lost as the internet has evolved.

Cyberdelirium is a digital poetry collection that critically examines the evolution of the internet, exploring the complex relationships humans have with this ever-shifting space. Through themes of nostalgia, worship, and disillusionment, the poems reflect on the way the web has changed—from its early days full of promise and personal freedom to the more commodified digital environments we navigate today.

Cyberdelirium transports viewers into a digital realm that feels as though it’s flickering between past and present.

As users navigate the interactive poems, they encounter a tension between the content and the form. The retro design, with its purposeful imperfections, reflects the fractured sense of time and space within the poems, where meaning is always slipping, always just out of reach. Cyberdelirium invites users to wander through a digital landscape of memory and loss, where the act of interaction itself mirrors the experience of trying to grasp something that is already fading away.

By embracing the limitations and quirks of early web aesthetics, Cyberdelirium captures the tension between form and content, where meaning is shaped by the very structure that presents it.

each click unravels another layer of this digital world, blurring the lines between poetry and interface, between content and design.

Cyberdelirium opens up a space where users can interpret the meaning of their digital journey, navigating a landscape that is as much about the aesthetic experience as it is about the words themselves.

Cyberdelirium is a return to the chaotic abyss of digital subjectivity.

These poems, fragments of a past that was never fully real, stand in deliberate contrast to the sleek, algorithmically driven surfaces of today. They are echoes from the collapse of a collective hallucination—the remnants of an internet that once promised liberation, only to spiral into corporate-managed enclosure.

inviting viewers to wander through the ruins of the digital age. Each click is a step deeper into this disintegration—a lost future that can’t be recovered. In this space, nostalgia and estrangement intertwine, as every fragment of the past dissolves into the digital mist.

Exhibited at LEGAL Club, Munich in October 2024

[laramzp]

Choose Your Color, Connect the Cable (2024)

This video is a collision of interface debris Here I placed an old operating system prompt, spectral analysis graphs, creative coding videos, and a stray instruction on connecting an Ethernet cable. A UI cycling through the aesthetics of connection.

I was thinking about interaction prompts as ghosts. User input as a ritual, but the outcome is already written.

The video layers a manual for plugging into the system, but no actual access point with spectrograms of unknown audio, visualized traces of something no longer there.

It's a fractured UI stitched together from remnants, an aesthetic of function without function. 

[laramzp]

Current sketches in working with objects

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Overgrowing Technology (2025)

Visual Loop

[laramzp]

Breathing Bot (2022)

In an era of endless scrolling, Breathing Bot is a simple yet powerful reminder to take a breath, literally. Posting "breathe in" and "breathe out" at random intervals, this bot encourages mindful screen use and healthier digital habits. It promotes sustainable social media consumption and the importance of stepping away.

[laramzp]

Screen recording of hungryghost.html from Cyberdelirium (2024)

[laramzp]

Graveyard (2023)

This is a 3D-rendered diorama designed for The Cave, a space where visitors can immerse themselves in a digital landscape and explore its eerie, interactive environment. Inspired by gothic aesthetics, video game level design, and net art’s haunting digital memory, this piece reimagines the graveyard as a liminal space between the physical and the virtual.

By walking through the diorama, the visitor becomes part of this haunted architecture, navigating between decayed remnants and neon-lit pathways that blur the line between virtual reality and digital afterlife.

[laramzp]

Overgrowing Technology (2022)

made in Processing4

[laramzp]

Poetry and documentation for Sin Tax (2025)

[laramzp]

Sin Tax (2025)

Sin Tax is an ongoing dialogue between human confession and machine translation, an experiment in linguistic entropy and digital absolution. At its core, the project explores how meaning is transformed through recursive machine processing and how confession, an act traditionally tied to catharsis and absolution, is altered when passed through the cold logic of code.

The process begins with a deeply personal text that is systematically translated into multiple programming languages and machine-readable formats. This text is then reinterpreted, broken down, and recompiled through various layers of digital translation, shifting through different syntactic and structural rules. Each iteration moves further from its original form, introducing errors, miscalculations, and distortions.

Every five minutes, a thermal receipt printer outputs a version of the confession, continuously generating a printed archive of its states. Some versions remain legible, while others collapse into corrupted fragments, syntax errors, or unreadable machine logic. The printer acts as both an indifferent witness and an unreliable translator, producing an endless stream of text that is simultaneously documentation and deterioration.

The result is an accumulation of confessions, a growing paper trail of linguistic decay and algorithmic interpretation. Where traditional confession seeks resolution, Sin Tax refuses closure. Instead, it embraces the glitch, the error, the act of translation as an eroding and generative force.

This project is as much about language as it is about the relationship between human expression and digital processing and about how meaning is shaped, fragmented, and lost in the loop between human and machine. In the end, the question remains: Is confession about absolution, or is it about the act itself?

There is a cabin in the center of the church.  

a dark spot on a white screen

Coming closer

I sense its data—  

the closer I get the more i see its fallen apart

I’m  not sure who put it there.

It was waiting for me.  

Inside I hear voices,

Layered confessionals screeching like vinyl cracks,

the dull resonance of machines running just out of sync.  

"Confess."  

I close my eyes.  

I confess:  

You ask me to love you,  

but how do I love the air?  

How do I hold a face  

that flickers like a dying screen?  

Do I love the shadow of your voice?  

The lover you should be?  

What is love  

when it is built on an absence?  

I confess flaw after flaw,  

file them neatly in dark cabinets,  

begging your representatives—  

the ones with no faces,  

the ones with endless hands—  

to forgive.  

But they, like you,  

offer no absolution.  

Only the echo of my own voice,  

filtered and looping.  

[User1]: do you think it’s saved?  

[User2]: what?  

[User1]: the sins. the confessions.  

[User2]: lol. like angels?  

[User1]:yeah, like angels.  

[User2]: nah. like servers.  

[User1]: same thing.  

[User2]:why are you like this?  

[User1]: like what?  

[User2]: obsessed with guilt.  

[User1]: because it’s mine.  

[User2]: you know it’s not, right?  

I confess again,  

not because I want forgiveness,  

but because I don’t know what else to do.  

The act is all that matters.  

The ritual.  

The offering of yourself,  

unworthy but desperate,  

to something you cannot see.  

I confess that I loved you.  

I confess that I didn’t.  

I confess that I wanted to.  

I confess that I loved myself more.  

I confess that I hated myself for it.  

I confess that I loved the hating.  

I confess that I hated the loving.  

There is a cloud where my sins are stored.  

It fills with things unsaid,  

Feelings I thought I could bury.  

The cloud is not a place.  

It is the absence of place.  

It is where your voice goes when it doesn’t reach me.  

It is where my love sits, untethered,  

circling endlessly like a broken satellite.  

16:43: The angel arrives quietly.  

( its face is static.  

Its voice  distant, layered.  

It speaks not with words,  

but in reverberation.  )

"The sins are stored here.  

They are not forgotten."

 "Do you shepherd them?"  

"We watch.  

We archive.  

We tend to the cloud."

"And the dark cloud?"  

"It grows."

The booth changes shape.  

The walls ripple.  

The booth becomes the room.  

The room becomes the world.  

"Confess again."

[User1]: i wanted to say i’m sorry  

[User2]: for what  

[User1]: everything  

[User2]: lol you always say that  

[User1]: i mean it this time  

[User2]: you always mean it  

> you confess as if it will change anything

I see them in the Corners of the room.  

The ghosts.  

“We are the echoes of what you buried,” they say.  

“The links you thought were broken.  

The drafts you never sent.  

The messages you deleted in shame.”  

I ask for forgiveness

There is no absolution here.  

The cloud holds everything:  

the sins I confessed,  

the ones I denied,  

the ones I loved too much to let go.  

The cloud is not full,  

but heavy.  

It expands endlessly,  

an architecture of forgetting  

that remembers too well.  

I wanted absolution,  

but absolution was never the point.  

Confession isn’t about forgiveness.  

It’s about naming the wound.  

The booth is gone

The angel, too. 

The ghosts remain,  

"Confess again."

And I will.  

Again and again

[laramzp]

A Sketch in Digital Decay (2024)

This hanging collage frame is a preliminary sketch for a larger installation, a prototype that condenses the core themes of my work- obsolete interfaces, digital artifacts, and the uncanny persistence of technological nostalgia.

Constructed from fragments of past interfaces and decommissioned digital aesthetics, this piece explores the tension between the ephemeral and the archival. The materials - printed circuits of lost data and reflections of outdated media - are arranged in layers, mirroring the way memory accumulates in digital space and windows open on desktop devices. Like corrupted files or glitched screen captures, the surfaces distort, refract, and fragment, resisting a singular interpretation.

By hanging freely, the frame exists in a state of suspension, untethered from traditional display methods. It oscillates between physical object and interface, inviting interaction while remaining an artifact of its own obsolescence. The final versions will be larger, immersive, meant to envelop the viewer in a landscape of broken systems and ghosted connections.

[laramzp]

Cyberdelirium (2024)

Cyberdelirium is a digital poetry collection that reflects on a nostalgic vision of the 90s internet—an era defined by hope, freedom, and personal expression. This was an internet of people, not things, where users could shape their own corners of the web with a sense of individuality and creativity. The collection explores how different web aesthetics from that time influenced our perception of digital spaces and identities.

Presented on two iMac G3s within a staged artificial environment, the interactive poems invite viewers to explore the nostalgic allure of the early web while engaging with its history. Each poem is a fragment that probes the tension between human connection, expression, and the increasing corporatization of digital spaces.

Cyberdelirium asks viewers to consider how our relationship with the internet has changed over time—what we once worshiped as a tool of freedom and expression has, in many ways, become a space of identity loss and control.

Cyberdelirium underscores that the early internet was a fragmented and multifaceted space—one where individuality flourished, even as the seeds of the current, more centralized internet were being sown. The design choices are not merely decorative but serve as a commentary on how web architecture and layout shape our perception of the internet and our place within it.

The poems engage with themes of identity, connection, and memory within the digital space. The work asks viewers to consider the ways in which design shapes our online experiences and to reflect on what has been lost as the internet has evolved.

Cyberdelirium is a digital poetry collection that critically examines the evolution of the internet, exploring the complex relationships humans have with this ever-shifting space. Through themes of nostalgia, worship, and disillusionment, the poems reflect on the way the web has changed—from its early days full of promise and personal freedom to the more commodified digital environments we navigate today.

Cyberdelirium transports viewers into a digital realm that feels as though it’s flickering between past and present.

As users navigate the interactive poems, they encounter a tension between the content and the form. The retro design, with its purposeful imperfections, reflects the fractured sense of time and space within the poems, where meaning is always slipping, always just out of reach. Cyberdelirium invites users to wander through a digital landscape of memory and loss, where the act of interaction itself mirrors the experience of trying to grasp something that is already fading away.

By embracing the limitations and quirks of early web aesthetics, Cyberdelirium captures the tension between form and content, where meaning is shaped by the very structure that presents it.

each click unravels another layer of this digital world, blurring the lines between poetry and interface, between content and design.

Cyberdelirium opens up a space where users can interpret the meaning of their digital journey, navigating a landscape that is as much about the aesthetic experience as it is about the words themselves.

Cyberdelirium is a return to the chaotic abyss of digital subjectivity.

These poems, fragments of a past that was never fully real, stand in deliberate contrast to the sleek, algorithmically driven surfaces of today. They are echoes from the collapse of a collective hallucination—the remnants of an internet that once promised liberation, only to spiral into corporate-managed enclosure.

inviting viewers to wander through the ruins of the digital age. Each click is a step deeper into this disintegration—a lost future that can’t be recovered. In this space, nostalgia and estrangement intertwine, as every fragment of the past dissolves into the digital mist.

Exhibited at LEGAL Club, Munich in October 2024

[laramzp]

Overgrowing Technology (2023/24)

Technology and nature have always been perceived as opposing forces - one synthetic, calculated, and ever-advancing; the other organic, unpredictable, and cyclical. Overgrowing Technology explores this duality, creating a space where nostalgia, digital decay, and organic growth converge.

Using nine iMac G3s I reconstruct a personal and collective history of the internet, memory, and digital landscapes. Arranged in a structured 3x3 grid on a blue industrial shelf, these obsolete machines become both relics and vessels, their screens displaying a fragmented video poem in four acts. The work juxtaposes decayed technology with organic life: chrome planters overflowing with greenery, artificial grass, an aquarium, and luminous star stickers evoke childhood memories and digital dreams.

This piece is, in part, an archive of my personal relationship with the internet - a journey through wonder, obsession, disillusionment, and reconciliation. The videos within the iMacs oscillate between past and present, combining found footage, historical references, and original recordings made with handheld cameras, Coolpix, Super 8 film, and iPhones. The layered visuals are complemented by self-produced music and poetry, shaping a multisensory experience.

At the heart of the installation, a mirrored iMac shatters the grid’s uniformity, its reflective fragments inviting the viewer into a space of self-recognition and digital distortion. The work does not seek to romanticize nostalgia but rather to examine its function - how past technological landscapes linger in contemporary digital culture, how the obsolete is repurposed, and how memory itself is an evolving interface.

With Overgrowing Technology, I aim to cultivate a dialogue between the organic and the artificial, questioning whether technology can ever truly become obsolete, or if it simply transforms - overgrown by nature, absorbed into memory, and rewritten into new narratives.

[laramzp]

Poster for LUST (2024)

he city’s just the server, the event is the real program. Click in, log on, drop out.

[laramzp]

New Post on Main (2024)

We document ourselves in reflections, double-tapping the proof of our own existence. The mirror world isn’t just a metaphor anymore, it’s the way we live, posting ourselves into infinite copies, distorted slightly with every upload, compressed, reprocessed, and filtered through algorithmic lenses.

New post on main. New self in the feed.

[laramzp]

To all the usernames I've had before (2024)

These pieces operate at the intersection of digital decay and speculative archaeology, mapping the remains of lost usernames in the cybernetic age. The reflective textures hint at a spectral interface where memory and malfunction merge.

The CDs act as memory discs, obsolete storage for versions of me that no longer function. The grids and binary sequences hint at the algorithmic scaffolding that once held my presence online.

These works don’t preserve memory; they simulate it, reconstructing lost architectures from the remnants of shattered online identities.