create-nft-gallery/templates/base/src/data/collection-metadata.json

CLI tool to scaffold NFT gallery applications for Arweave Name System (ArNS) domains

[
  {
    "name": "after the streetlights stopped grieving",
    "description": "that one winter  \nthe street lights bled  \nwhat glow they had left  \ninto our hands  \ninstead of the night sky  \nand we’d feel the regret it held  \nand the relief in dying  \nor succumbing to the inevitable  \nand sometimes we’d cry  \nbecause it made us warm  \nfor the first time in years  \nand because there weren’t many stars anymore  \nand the moon seemed in disrepair too  \nand in time  \nwe couldn’t see each others faces anymore \neven though we hadn’t in years anyway\n\nthough we felt the crevices that grew like tree roots  \nand thought about how we couldn’t remember that story dad used to tell  \nand wondered if it was buried somewhere in one of the sagging fault lines  \nor the pool of flies \nwhose wings sometimes made it hard to see  \nbut didn’t ever reach to find out\n\nbecause all we could think about was that street light  \nand the resentment it held  \nor if it held anything at all",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/L3RiANVMGWvGY-YIHF94UHt2MfoLzZNF1csR-Y75gvQ",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "precious moments",
    "description": "on Wednesday I turned my hand into schnitzel  \nusing a steel mallet to to rid my flesh  \nof the bones I resented  \ngleefully shattering them on an old cutting board  \nfeverishly increasing the speed and power of my swings  \nto the sound of my insides disintegrating  \ncareful to pulverize  \nmy shapeless flesh  \nso it was thin enough  \nto crisp in fryer oil  \nI smothered it in egg and breading  \nand fried it until it turned an immaculate golden brown  \nand applied a cranberry purée finisher  \nI took a picture of the perfectly plated meal  \nand submitted it to a food blog that didn’t exist  \nI fell asleep that night  \nwith my hand leaking grease and cranberry sauce  \nshedding molten skin and breading  \nand blood into my sheets  \nlaughing at the nerves attempting to move bones that were no longer there  \nI wondered if it would every do anything more important than what it had done  \nthat night",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/vdr4bN6jpPwYyl53c1KTtOI3isZdSyaXalf4Ba-9nkc",
    "external_url": "https://onetie-alltie.com/",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "you were once you",
    "description": "is what I told you  \nto dry our pillows  \nonce in February\n\nbecause the moisture that once made our eyes heavy, now saturated the cloth womb \nresponsible for our momentary reprieve \nbecause unmoving quilts were favorable to the cold investing our bedroom\n\nbecause you needed it  \neven though it wasn’t much \na collapsed vein  \nto a neglected limb \n\nbecause the deviation had become too great \nbecause the bones still stood \nwhere they once did  \nleft without opportunity for abandonment \n \neven though everything else had quit \n\nwe no longer laughed at the blood flowing from your fingertips \neven though it didn’t flow much anymore anyway \n\nimagination always evolves to obligation \nlove always evolves to complacency \n\nsome mornings you seemed like you  \nbut the eerie facade \nbecame apparent \nas the sand fell from our eyes \n\nand all we wanted was the stagnation we sought to avoid \n\nand we both would look at the ceiling \nwondering when the cold would stop  \nbeing so cold",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/begzvWl6C18IrMmjz_npBJnoXlu6UZ41wm40Z5IaE_E",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "flesh jacuzzi",
    "description": "hundreds of years passed with predictably few technological or societal advancements  \nthe withering legs of progress sat paralyzed underneath the weight  \nof a skid-marked, threadbare quilt  \ndesire, creativity, motivation, inspiration and any other forward momentum  \nsuffocated by the puss leaking from engorged bedsores  \npeople cherished their inactivity, rationalized it  \ntomorrow was better than today",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/jlYc0OCYiPrjBUCXq3-BSjc_FYJbokrXbf4qmLsnRRQ",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "coats we once wore",
    "description": "we went to the bar where Vonnegut wrote slaughterhouse 5  \nand watched an 80 year old in a slipknot shirt warm frozen patties on an electric grill  \nand a man read a newspaper from two days ago  \nand wondered when the moon got so full  \nor when our coats got so heavy",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/sL-J31aP__jB14V5Te06z55g31KgtYpLOsWOnNbbzYo",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "after the ethanol stopped burning",
    "description": "our pupils blended with the smell of burning ethanol  \nthrough an orgy of wind turbines  \nthat turned without much thought  \nand provided no discernible power  \nto the rash of houses  \nquietly suffocating in their wake\n\n\nbut they did propel the aluminum womb we rode in  \nwhich was absent of fuel  \nor destination  \nor driver  \nwho had succumbed to alcholism  \nat some point during the trip  \nand passed quietly behind the indifferent wheel  \nleaving the pedals which never required his weight anyway\n\nthough he’d told us he never meant to be a driver  \nor an alcoholic  \nno one means to anything  \nit was all just something that happened\n\n\nand that his death had no bearing on our celebration or mourning  \nor arrival or departure\n\n\nit was the thing he was meant for  \nas dictated by the deviations in the corn stalks",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/AJnaJquOsFPlnKTir5226EIQYJ8Du47QJfD4RpBFfKs",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "company picnic",
    "description": "the company picnic took place  \nwithout much ceremony or celebration  \nand usually when we weren’t all that hungry  \nbut we didn’t eat much anymore anyway  \nbecause sometimes you felt full  \nwhen a dream died of natural causes  \nover the course of a forgettable life  \nor in the absence of such endeavor  \nand sickness and satisfaction  \npushed blood to limbs all the same anyway  \nand sometimes we wanted our fingers to bleed what little we had left  \ninto empty cells predicting our demise  \nwith unbearable accuracy  \nor into agape mouths of those bleeding out  \nin a similar state of indifference  \nwith hopes of dissolving the muscle and bone  \nthat hoisted us into fluorescent lighting  \nthat brought us life  \nlike gas station heat lamps  \nour great sacrifice wasn’t that different  \nthan the eternally rotating cases lips and holes  \nour climax was the feel of scalding grates  \nthe caress of the spatula  \nand the womb of intestines  \nfrom the nest groomed carrion  \nand their journey for flaccid submission  \n",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/T7I-kmJPTlbGdo1eTiXPtAZ6qUB5vt6ZJWQeJTnw0To",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "nothing left",
    "description": "someone said something once  \nand we ate  \nor maybe they didn’t say much  \nbut their shattered teeth  \nbegged for our wings  \nand tongues  \nand the ecstasy of flesh becoming nest  \nand the careless jaws of machines  \nswallowing  \nfor the sake of it  \nfor a two cent ribbon  \nor a goldfish in a bag\n\nor to feel teeth and teeth  \nor the sound of lifeless orgasms\n\nor feel what was left of  \nwhatever existed there once  \nin the town we’d grown to hate\n\nsome days the sun told us  \nwhich mound was next  \nin that highway median\n\nand because no one else talked  \nwe listened\n\nother days it was quiet  \nunder those clouds  \nand we didn’t eat much at all\n\nsometimes we were happiest those days  \nwhen our stomachs were empty ",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/LIRj2L_f-4DviKsmmKhv9mDgoZuXzJIYsvQnwZmQ1fI",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "things we opened",
    "description": "we sat on shore  \nand applauded  \nwith the fingers we had left  \nthe boats sinking  \nin a familiar storm\n\napplause was a generous designation  \nbecause our hands didn’t make noise anymore  \nand in their mechanical rubbing  \nwasn’t celebration\n\nthis insect habit  \nwas our sail  \nand our skies never breached  \novercast\n\nwe were sinking too  \nwithout the rain  \nor splintering decks\n\nunder the weight  \nof a diminishing island  \n",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/6wUTcpi1GCB3n9jJyDnPx1k5wWZ8hsprH8jRoxi62Vo",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "rest stops",
    "description": "we drove next to a semi full of pigs awaiting slaughter  \nduring a once in a lifetime event\n\naccording to the news\n\nthey didn’t seem to notice the darkness either\n\nsimply looking from slats  \nat a rest stop full of people without eyes  \nwe did the same  \nmore concerned with asphalt  \nthan sky",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/STyxyV9JIcrfsyVDwoqvQyZw4ar2I8GRD0C18uQVJ_4",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "yesterday's spit",
    "description": "some days  \nwe noticed the fingers  \nthat rested on our arms and legs\n\ntaking what they could  \nin the little movement they were still afforded\n\ncollecting pieces under nails and in wrinkles  \ncelebrating their mechanical pageant of accumulation\n\nstuffing themselves sick to remember  \nwhat would eventually be lost  \nwhen the grates finally failed\n\nor the lecherous tongue finally rupturing \nthe bottom of a brown paper bag  \nfilled with discount memories\n\nother days we didn’t notice at all  \nand wondered if they’d stopped their dance  \ntheir digging  \ntheir packing and shipping  \nthe plastic wrap and stickers  \nused to sell rot\n\nor maybe they’d grown tired of the things  \nthey’d gathered\n\nor maybe there wasn’t much left  \nto remember anyway",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/Q3P4nNTipxqFjx3GSw7YyeDedRXBC6-KgEWu0RD_s5I",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "cake again",
    "description": "we didn’t blame him  \nfor his inability to nourish\n\nor the absence of flavor  \nexposed by a plastic serving utensil\n\nor his elation  \nin watching his offering  \nrapidly turn into waste  \nlike so much did\n\nand sometimes we found comfort  \nin the reflection we saw  \nin the mixture of saliva and cake  \nspilling from the mouths of others\n\nwho chewed  \nas applause\n\nbut we did resent the feast  \nand the baker\n\nfor serving what he did\n\nand the microwave  \nfor demanding something be placed  \non its spinning plate \n\nand the celebration  \nthat seemed to last longer\n\nthan we all wanted",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/thUVsulM3KdBoI98-OYAzdQwDEPsJgfqWpjmqDP36DM",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "cherishing diminishing joy",
    "description": "they indicated the job was over\n\nwhen the probing barbs meant to communicate affection  \npenetrated the parts of us  \nstill worthy of carve\n\ninto a decorative orb  \nor a wilting perennial  \nor a piece of the sky  \nthat we never really looked at anymore\n\nand the cold steel of the device  \nresponsible for replenishing the boxes  \nthat deserved no replenishment  \nand fostered diminishing joy\n\nwould provide a reflection of the wound  \nit dug from  \nwhich became more unfamiliar by the day  \nbut it was something to look at\n\nthat wasn’t the sculptures  \nin their boxes\n\nthose barbs never could communicate  \nthe affection they intended with the obscured shapes they molded  \nand the cardboard never bowed\n\nso the job never ended",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/-tkk9L7Yj_4tI1tTc9EijrwkrPHKzBNvp2IULDFavQQ",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  },
  {
    "name": "old shows",
    "description": "we stood on shore  \nrecreating a ticker-tape parade  \nwith what little remained  \nof a beached whale  \nwho drowned in the pitiless tide\n\nthough the bone and organ menagerie \nwas absent of joy  \nand it commemorated a moment  \nunworthy of confetti  \nor balloon saviors\n\nit soothed the arthritis in our fingers  \nto make something  \nthat would be absorb by the blackness  \nof its dehydrated eye",
    "image": "https://arweave.net/A1UpYcTb9rXauhQe5z1R_jCZ7D2-MNZFuzq7MdK-5uQ",
    "attributes": [
      {
        "trait_type": "Artist",
        "value": "diewiththemostlikes"
      }
    ]
  }
]