These are not nails, they’re relics I’ve welded to myself. Real stones, the kind the earth had to suffer : heavy, unpolished, stubborn. I let them stay raw, because refinement is a cheap trick for people who fear reality. Silver clings around them like metal scraped off a broken machine, as if luxury was never meant to be smooth. I don’t wear glitter, I wear geological evidence as proof that something precious can exist without behaving nicely. Let everyone chase polish and symmetry; I’m busy dragging minerals straight from the dirt to my hands. If beauty has no meaning, then at least let it be rare, heavy, and older than every opinion in the room. I don’t decorate myself. I carry artifacts.