Case 017

the secret files of new york art detective

Walter Lin P.I.

Words in Transit 

It began with loss. My mum passed, and something shifted. In the quiet that followed, poetry found me. I didn’t go looking for it—it just crept in during a moment of stillness, reflection. From there, things moved fast. I started questioning what I wanted from this life. The writing pulled me deeper. 

Then came the frustration. Instagram. The scroll. The silence. Posts disappearing into the void. Facebook, even worse. But strangely, that restlessness became fuel. I wrote through it. Let it burn clean. 

Somewhere in there, I caught myself. I don’t really know what I’m doing—no training, no background, no crafted voice—but that never stopped the words. They kept coming. And I kept following. 

A Quicker Flame 

Poetry moves faster than anything I’ve made before. Printmaking takes time, layers, patience. Poetry just… drops. I can take something jagged inside me and put it into form before it cools. I’ve never had that before. 

It’s made me look harder at my visual work. At why I do it. What it says. What it doesn’t say. I’m starting to realise I want more from it—more from myself. Not just to make things, but to move something in people. To genuinely shift the way something is seen or felt. That’s what I want now. That’s what I’m chasing. 

Four Deep 

I’m four poems in. That’s it. But it feels like something’s opened up. I’m not claiming anything yet. No titles, no labels. Just movement. Possibility. The kind that makes you sit still and let it take you. 

More are coming. I can feel them pacing around just out of sight.

THE poems

Pressed Into Souls 

Steps fade,
Yet 
Their weight lingers. 
Paths thin; 
Memories thick. 
Pressed into soles, 
Pressed into souls. 

I Should Want Less

I should want less 
not more. 
But I want more 
because I didn’t know 
what I wanted before.  

I should want less, 
for the simple life. 
Less stress, less fear, 
more time 
to contemplate and appreciate - 
enjoy the now. 

But I want more. 
Because I didn’t know what I wanted before. 

Doomscrolling 

Time should be more precious than this, 
Captivated by quick-fire artifice. 
Relinquishing this most precious commodity.
Dopamine receptors’ promiscuity 

Is to blame;
Old man evolution abdicates his reign 
- resigned to the fact the game has changed - 
Too slow to retain 
It’s value as a means to protect our claim 
To be superior yet, 
Now we’re outpaced by tech 

Advances into areas unknown, 
To the delight of bad actors who’ll enter your home, 
Setting traps in every room. 
So you can’t then moan 
When your fridge or your tele decide to enthrone 
A microscopic digital child of our own,  

Who’ll put an end to it all.
And, with us gone, 
time recommits to a
dead
slow
crawl.

But Three Poems 

I am someone who has written
but three poems, yet 
Feels like he’s written more. 

Funny, ‘cos all of a sudden I have, 
I’m someone who’s written four!