CUPIDUS: Armour Season 34

Cupidus

Letter from the Editors, p2 S entiments, p6 Seventh Heaven, p20

Logo Fomo, p86 Reverence, p102 Anticipation, p114 Deliverance, p134

the desi

Cupidus, Fall 2025

OPINION

Letter from the Editors

by SOPHIA PALITTI

Cupidus definition /‘kjupedes/

1. eager, desirous, passionate, fond

2. greedy, covetous

3. wanton, lecherous

4. partial, biased, favoring

Let us first define the word cupidus. A Latin adjective—cupidus is most commonly employed to emphasize the presence of passion or desire. These emotions are an essential part of the human experience. Our primal instincts tell us that the entire point of life is to get laid.1 We are inherently social animals. We strive to be desirous to others—in friendship, partnership, and our everyday life. It is the element of desire that makes us human. That connects us to one another. That drives us to create, to worship, to hypothesize, to daydream and to act.

1. Please see Subway Takes episode “the point of

Boys & Their Toys, p36 Fine Threads, p56 Desires, p74

Modern Worship, p152 Staff List, p166

Executive Members, p168

re issue

OPINION

Letter from the Editors

This semester, we plunged into the world of passion. From religious devotion to secret (true!) confessions, we examined what makes us human. Whether it be the endless possibilities of a girl’s night out, or the hopes and dreams whispered into the ears of our childhood toys—cupidus reveals our truest desires. It gives us the freedom to bring to life thoughts and ideas we may have been afraid to voice. Cupidus is our confessional. An ode to all things obsessive, fervent, intimate, delusional, dedicated, Armour season thirty four is (what we’ve dubbed) the desire issue. We encouraged Armourites to use their creative passion to express, well, what they are passionate about. We encouraged our community to reveal to us their deepest—and in some cases, darkest—secrets, to show us the underbelly of human longing. We explored what makes something attractive, how we make ourselves attractive, what the word “attractive” even means. We celebrated this vulnerable side of human existence, and we have to say, we think you’ll find it pretty fabulous.

We owe a huge thank you to our staff, who worked so diligently and thoughtfully to handle these ideas, practices, designs, clothes and visions with such care. Cupidus—in all its meanings—are delicate topics, and we are endlessly grateful to this crew for celebrating and carrying this issue with passion. (wink wink) Cupidus inspires us to explore and ideate on our innermost desires, bringing to light what might normally be tucked away in the corners of the soul. Our passion & love for Armour; the community, the magazine, the ideas—is immense, and we hope that you will feel that energy radiating throughout this issue. To our Armour babies, we love you all so much. Never stop creating and being your wonderful, wacky, genius selves. It’s been an absolute pleasure.

Stay sexy. Be Cupidus.

Sincerely, Sophia, Bri and Yabsera 2024–2025 Editors-in-Chief

SENTI MENTS

Creative Direction

Chelsea Haye

Claire Gwak

Photography

Nina Bergman

Nissi Yorke

Writer

Emmy Giarla

Makeup

Claire Gwak

Mazie Drummond

Nadia Ahmed

Allison Goldblum

Styling

Claire Gwak

Layout

Maeve Collins

Models

Mazie Drummond

Nadia Ahmed

Allison Goldblum

I’ve never known a person so beautiful.

When she first stumbled into my life, the shopkeeper’s bell sang with her entrance, and the apple of her cheeks glowed with happiness. She stepped through the threshold, already inspecting the array of objects laid out before her with a hungry sort of wonder. Her fingertips danced over the store’s items with fleeting touches, a soft and unspoken recognition of their beauty.

I had never believed myself to be a beautiful thing. I have not known a life off my dusty shelf because I knew myself to be homely, with my fading blue overalls and yellowed price tag. People only chose the lovely toys. I never knew the warmth of a person and never expected to. I was content to linger in my solitude, watching and waiting. But seeing her, hope reared its head throughout my stuffing. She gravitated toward me, despite the other pretty things monopolizing her attention. Slowly but surely, she navigated her way into my isolated corner, and it wasn’t long before she stood before my shelf.

“What a lovely pair of overalls!” It took me a moment to realize she was speaking to me, her eyes aglow with mirth. She leaned forward and examined me closely, humming thoughtfully. Then, she grinned and gently wrapped her hand around my middle.

“Something as cute as you has no business in a place like this.”

And for the very first time, I was lifted from my shelf.

I had never believed myself to be a beautiful thing.

She leaned forward and examined me closely, humming thoughtfully.

And for the very first time, I was lifted from my shelf.

My stagnant world shifted into something foreign. Snugly wrapped in the girl’s arms, I suddenly had a new perspective of the shop. Before I could take in the new sights, however, my vision began to blur. The girl rushed forward toward the desk near the entrance of the shop and began to rock on her heels impatiently. An older woman emerged from the mysterious room behind the counter and smiled gently at the girl.

“All set?” She asked, looking at me with twinkling eyes.

“Yup!” The girl said, squeezing me tightly before placing me on the counter. She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out two crumpled balls of green paper. She haphazardly straightened them out before handing them to the old woman, who accepted them with thanks.

The girl wrapped her hands around me and brought me close to her chest once more. The old woman saw this and said, “She’ll be very happy with you, young lady.” I could not help but agree. The girl giggled and bounced on the tips of her toes.

“Thank you so much, I hope you have a great day!”

Mazie, as I later learned, cared for me for about a week. She bathed me, told me stories of her friends, and sang to me at night. Sometimes, she would dance with me in her arms, all around her home. On my eighth day with Mazie, she held me close and whispered, “I have loved having you here. But I have a friend who needs your company more than I do right now. I promise she’ll take care of you. Do you think… that you could take care of her?”

We both knew I could not speak aloud. We both heard the unspoken yes all the same.

“Mazie, what is this?”

“A gift! C’mon, I know you like her. Isn’t she the cutest?”

The girl, Nadia, as Mazie told me, looked down at me in disdain. Like Mazie, she was beautiful, but in a cold, calculating way. Mazie had shown me a kindness I have never known, so I was quick to agree to her wish from yesterday. But as I looked at Nadia and her closedoff expression, my uncertainty swelled. I did not understand why Mazie wanted to gift me to someone who did not want me. If Nadia truly hated me as much as she seemed to, I knew it would not be long before I wound up alone and forgotten on another shelf. Mazie did not share my concern. Her smile never once waned. She was still facing Nadia head-on, holding me out from her chest in front of the other girl’s face. “I got her just for you, Nadia! It would seriously hurt my feelings if you didn’t accept her,” Mazie said, shaking me slightly.

Nadia sighed before taking me from Mazie’s hands. “Fine.”

For the next week, Nadia did not address me. She tucked me into her bed and did not touch me since. Late in the night, she would come in, change into her nightclothes, and flop down on the bed facing away from me. I appreciated the softness of the bed, but I didn’t enjoy the potent silence. I had grown accustomed to Mazie’s incessant noise and joviality, so Nadia’s frigid demeanor was a startling change.

One day, Nadia came home with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. As always, she said nothing as she got ready for bed. When she slid under the covers, she was facing me. For a terrible moment, I saw her eyes well with tears and her lips tremble. And then, she brought me to her chest and held me tight, while sobs wracked her frame. Every night after, Nadia held me close. She then whispered to me in the dark, telling me of her day. She always made sure to say hello and goodbye as she came and went from the bedroom. It was a quiet, tender love we shared.

On a sunny weekend, Nadia told me she was taking me out on an adventure. She carefully placed me on the zipper of her purse and took me to a nearby shopping district. I didn’t realize the area was familiar until we walked into a store with an unforgettable doorbell. The shop I had spent the entirety of my life in had not changed in the few weeks I had been gone. Everything was exactly how I left it, stale and stagnant.

Suddenly, my vision blurred. I was no longer on Nadia’s purse, but on the floor, facing her as she inspected the objects in the shop. Nadia absentmindedly ran her finger along the zipper of her bag, then froze. She whirled around the store, spinning in quick, anxious circles. In her panic, her eyes passed over me, unseeing. She turned toward the door.

Wait, please don’t go! I’m here! I’m right here!

I watched warily as Nadia stepped through the threshold, her face wrought with worry and her back straight and proud as always. I thought about what would happen if my voice could reach her. I imagined her turning around, her expression of panic softening into one of concern, then love.

I imagined her warm hands wrapping around me, scooping me up from the cold and unforgiving floor. But she never returned.

Everything was exactly how I left it, stale and stagnant.

My hours on the floor stretched by in agony. The old woman in the shop shuffled by periodically, but her aged eyes never saw me. All I could think about was Nadia and her fearful expression as she realized I was no longer by her side. I wished more than anything that my thoughts could reach her. I wish she knew that I loved her, if even just for the short time we had together.

My thoughts of Nadia abruptly halted when a foot collided with my midsection. The force of the kick flipped me over on my front, obscuring my line of sight. I could not feel pain, but I was shocked all the same. Then, I heard a soft and lovely voice.

“Oh, pardon me.”

A hand wrapped around me and lifted me from the floor. Then, I saw her. She was pretty, and her touch was light and considerate. She brushed the dust from my overalls and stared deep into my eyes. “Are you alright?”

Yes, thanks to you, I thought. Somehow, she understood. “I’m Allie,” she said, the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. Allie then pushed herself off the floor, her hand wrapped around mine. She approached the front desk, gently swinging me, causing a giddy excitement to bubble up in my stuffing. The old woman looked up as we approached. “How much for her, ma’am?” Allie asked, placing me on the counter.

The old woman looked down at me, then squinted in confusion. “Well, I suppose she’s free! And dear, please take care of her this time.”

Allie tilted her head before nodding. “I will, thank you.”

Life with Allie was strange. I didn’t feel like she needed me in the way Nadia needed me. But our relationship was not fleeting like the one I had with Mazie. Allie kept me close, no matter where she went. She would read to me aloud every night, but spoke little during the day.

She rarely left her home, yet spent hours by the window, watching the people walking on the street below.

I wasn’t entirely sure Allie noticed my presence half the time I was with her until she held me close to her heart and said, “I think you’re my best friend.”

After that, the tight ball of anxiety within me unraveled. With Allie, I began to feel invincible. The ground never seemed so far, and Allie’s grip on me never slackened. I often looked at Allie and found myself in awe of the new normal she allowed me to live. The memories I shared with Mazie and Nadia stayed etched in my being, and every day I remember the love they showed me. Mazie’s smile and Nadia’s voice were distant yet precious echoes of the start of my new life.

Now, I was stepping into a new forever with Allie, away from the dark and dust.

Now, I was stepping into a new forever with Allie, away from the dark and dust.

seventh

creative direction model videography layout poem

Oh Raphael. Guardian angel. In love and crime all things move in sevens. seven compartments in the heart. the seven elaborate temptations. seven devils cast from Mary Magdalene whore of Christ. the seven marvelous voyages of Sinbad. sin/bad. And the number seven branded forever on the forehead of Cain. The first inspired man. The father of desire and murder. But his was not the first ecstasy. Consider his mother.

Eve’s was the crime of curiosity. As the saying goes:

One bad apple spoiled the whole shot. But be sure it was no apple. An apple looks like an ass. It’s f*gs’ fruit. It must have been a tomato.

Or better yet. A mango.

She bit. Must we blame her. poor sweet bitch. abuse her.

Perhaps there’s more to the story.

think of Satan as some stud. maybe her knees were open. satan snakes between them. they open wider snakes up her thighs rubs against her for a while

more than the tree of knowledge was about to be eaten...she shudders her first shudder pleasure pleasure garden

god only knows was she sorry are we ever girls was she a good lay

YS & THEIR TOYS BO

MODELS: MARCO MINAI

ZEKE SISK MAKAEL CARTER

LAYOUT: EVELYN PAE

STYLIST: EVELYN PAE

Ayoung boy’s childhood is decorated with fond memories of his favorite toys. As he marches towards adulthood– into the monotony of nine-to-fives, suits and ties, bills and responsibility– those dinosaurs, racecars, and action figures follow. Behind the uptight, double-breasted jacket of the 21st-century man, is a little boy who relaxes by letting his fingers meander over a colorful tub of LEGO bricks. Despite being so oppositional to our imaginations of masculinity, those youthful fascinations are what keeps many men’s identity afloat.

For instance, take that guy you know who knows everything about dinosaurs. The difference between a brontosaurus and a brachiosaurus, how many ridges spike the spine of a stegosaurus, the fact that they likely bore feathers, not scales (despite inaccurate action figures and Spielberg movies): he spends his free time exploring the kingdom of knowledge those facts build. The archeological research behind it is work, but it’s not work work. Instead, it’s a distant vacation

“THE

HAPPY PLEASURES AND LACK OF ‘PRODUCTIVITY’ CHARACTERISTIC OF CHILDHOOD FASCINATIONS SEEM AT ODDS WITH THE 21ST CENTURY’S EXPECTATIONS OF MASCULINITY.”

BOYS &

“It’s a strange thing, how when the morning commute replaces the morning bell, those lunch-table conversation topics and ‘toys’ don’t leave the mind of a boy.”

“AS LONG AS WE HAVE THESE SOCIAL CATEGORIES OF BOY AND MAN, TOYS WILL SOMEHOW FIND THEMSELVES MESSILY STREWN ABOUT THE BOUNDARY.”

THEIR TOYS

“Despite being so oppositional to our imaginations of masculinity, those youthful fascinations are what keeps many men’s identity afloat.”

“THE BOY BECOMES THE MAN — BUT THE TOYS FOLLOW.”

SPRING 25

into the Argentine badlands, a time for a boy to dig his hands into the dirt and feel those ancient bones in his hands, even when it’s just a foray into his own machinations.

Other men try to pull their imaginations into the real world, filling shelves and spare boxes with 3D printed figurines of warriors, dragons, and knights, or building massive cities, with accurate sewer systems and roadmaps in Minecraft. Some find their mental picture in pre-packaged models, and go home from a day’s work to a superglue-crusted workbench to weld together tiny tanks and airplanes from WWII.

Wild Western cities, where Union-Pacific tycoons meet with small-town mayors to lay railroad tracks populate adult, beer-stained basements, and thus boxcars thread under TVs

and over storage shelves. Sure, he’s got something better to do, but isn’t deciding which intersections require boom barriers so much more fun?

Some men’s boyish pastimes are pulled from a time before such understandings of intricacy formed– take the dusty, red racecar, sun-bleached from time next to a windowsill, that, when rolled, has just the right squeak in the wheel that the man remembers. The car is a far-from-mint vessel for nostalgia, dented and scraped from too many trips pushed through the old living room that now drives him back to the old house. Behind the spot on his desk where that car’s parked, the wall is painted with F1 Posters. His garage reeks of gas and cleaning polish because inside is a pristine,

cherry-red ‘87 Mustang, the same car that he used to circuit around the carpet.

It’s a strange thing, how when the morning commute replaces the morning bell, those lunch-table conversation topics and “toys” don’t leave the mind of a boy. The happy pleasures and lack of “productivity” characteristic of childhood fascinations seem at odds with the 21st century’s expectations of masculinity, especially when working is so important to staying alive and to patriarchy. But model trucks and airplanes, G.I. Joes, video games and comic books haven’t disappeared from the man’s closet– heck, with Tony Starks and Elons, Cybertrucks and home-flamethrowers now populate home garages.

“IMAGINATION DOESN’T AGE. IT ADAPTS.”

It seems that as long as we have these social categories of boy and man, that toys will somehow find themselves messily strewn about the boundary, building matchstick bridges and flying plastic airplanes over the line.

BOYS & THEIR TOYS.

CREDITS:

CREATIVE DIRECTION: ANDREW WANG

CREATIVE DIRECTION: JACKIE WANG

CREATIVE DIRECTION: EVELYN PAE

PHOTOGRAPHY: NICOLAS CEVALLOS

PHOTOGRAPHY: CHIBY ONYEADOR

COPY: WYATT BYERS

STYLIST: EVELYN PAE

MODEL: MARCO MINAI

MODEL: ZEKE SISK

MODEL: MAKAEL CARTER

LAYOUT: EVELYN PAE

FINE THREADS

CREATIVE DIRECTION

STYLING

WRITING

To be is to be perceived.

An action without an audience is an evaporating breath in the wind and even then, old brains will gray and magazine-covers decay and stories flee the earth.

So, chase that spotlight how the moon chases the sun and the stars will gossip about it for ages.

Once there was a young emperor who spent most of his time in the bedroom in front of a tall mirror it had gold, curly embellishments that licked the sides and perfect lighting, thanks to an adjacent window and when you stepped in front of it, it consumed the bottoms of your loafers and the stray hairs that dance atop your head

it was a delightful distance from the closet and the bed, begging a meager amount of inconvenience when you had to switch clothes, but was far enough to keep furnitures’ profiles from stealing attention.

The emperor spent days staring at his outfits each instrument in the ensemble, a grail conquered from a thrift-store in an old-money side of town, the consequence of an exorbitant drunk purchase, or the treasure from a depop-lowball.

He stared at the accomplishments adorning his body getting ready for the day, and the morning spilled into afternoon and the meetings, paperwork, or whatever-else emperors do, were pushed back into never.

One day, while the kingdom buzzed a busy song outside, the emperor, languorously melted within his bedsheets, ran his finger up the cracked face of his phone, scrolling through the annals of his twitter feed as he so often did.

A new brand, heralded by some niche local caught his attention; indie folks who ran a tailoring and second-hand apparel company out of their basement: deliciously esoteric literally underground.

The emperor foraged through their page, hand trembling over the “add to cart” prompt as each piece breezed across the screen.

At the floor of the site was an empty box, waiting, with no model or depiction of the garment inside. informed by the work of kant and engels, reject materialism with this coat, FINE THREADS

the description read how mysterious how subversive

HOW SUB

The emperor thought to himself. And invoking his most leftist curiosities, he raced to input his credit card and address. The plastic package arrived on his stoop the next day.

VERSIVE

Now the emperor rarely went out, and when he did, rarely did he care for the purpose of his occasion. He was prone to walking into a room and forgetting what he was doing there.

But nonetheless, he enjoyed the walk where onlookers wait like deer hunters to glimpse at the emperor’s figure. The emperor took pride in how not all his constituency glanced at him. Not everyone understood him.

Only the most cultured lords and ladies could overcome the loudness of his style or the subtle references hooking his speech, and see the glowing star of taste that he was, like how only a bee can see the ultraviolet light that guides to the most pollen-filled blossom of a hydrangea bush.

So when the emperor took to the theater to show off his haul, he was pleased to see the small crowd waiting for him, the cream of the erudite in his kingdom, who were totally gonna love what he bought.

The audience shuffled in their seats; noblemen and academics, interesting people wearing interesting clothes.

Among them was an unfortunate belle, on the shittiest first date imaginable with this shallow rake who “just had to bring her out to this exhibition.”

The velvet curtains were drawn and the sounds of phones scraping into pockets replaced the hum of conversation

The emperor stood peacock-like onstage, draped in decadent furs and binary-challenging skirts, pedestalled on heels, and darted his severe, sapphiric eyes around the auditorium.

His presence was met with intellectual “mmhs” and “ahhs,” an audience-response only rivalled in intensity by golf tournaments. But inside the emperor’s armor of garb, he felt no alliance with the crowd; if anything, he was the people’s enemy, on a quest to rebel against their expectations, and set himself apart from them. Only in that novelty, would the emperor deserve their cheers.

the emperor doffed his hat, and undid his belt.

His golden chains and jewelry clinked shrill to the ground like dampened bells, and his jacket poured down his shoulders, until he was nude, on the stage.

He reached down to the floor and picked up the coat he bought online, that fireworks-finale of the show, and slipped his pale arms into invisible sleeves and pulled it taut on his body.

And in glorious confidence, he strutted down the aisle of the theater. The wind trailing his body puffed at the spectators as they watched the slender emperor pass by.

“What the hell?” the date asked, standing from the confines of her seat Her voice was sopping with repulsion of the entire spectacle–the frou-frou people lining left-to-right, her disinterested guy, but most pertinently, the naked boy standing 3 seats down from her.

The question sliced the emperor like a shard of glass; like a shard of mirror; beaming his exposed image back at the emperor. And like Eve, post-apple, the emperor cowered.

He collapsed in between the sitting stampedes of seats, hiding himself between his knees and his groans of shame bounced off the acoustic walls of the theater.

A collective knowing filled the room, shared in a turning of heads & side-eyes, that the emperor was a poser that was what he was known by, and that was how he would be remembered.

THE END.

REVERENCE

REVERENCE

CREATIVE DIRECTION

ANTICI

STYLING

Claire Ackley

Seth Skiles

MAKEUP ARTIST

Ja’la Fuller

MODELS

Maeve Collins

Dorothy Harbaugh

Lizzy Larscheid

Drew Mahlmeister

Sophia Palitti

Whitney Short

PATION

the girls

are going out.

The night buzzes with excitement and the air around them is electric, alive with ideas of what the night may bring. This is the ritual: lip gloss smudged on the rim of a wine glass, someones playlist battling the sounds of blow dryers and gossip, a lacy bra hanging from the corner of the mirror. The floor is a collage of silk, denim, and heels no one can really walk in, and the air has that unmistakable blend of vanilla perfume and cigarette smoke. One girl is texting her ex again...Another is organizing a lineup of shooters like it is a science experiment.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, a squeal of delight sounds as someone finally finds The Top the one that will make her feel unstoppable once she steps through the door of the club. Theres no plan, not really, but the night is young, the lipstick is fresh, and the anticipation is nearly unbearable. The girls grab their purses and step out the door – the world is their oyster.

,

,

Maeve

I mean, whatever. The outfit doesn’t matter, as long as it’s all black. It’s about vibe. I look hot. I look mean. I lit a cigarette just to look at it. The wing on my eyeliner is perfect, which probably means I’ll end up crying it off later, but like, in a cool way. Tonight’s goal: flirt with whoever is funniest, then hop in Drew’s car when he’s not looking. I just want a

little attention!... and maybe a little chaos... I’ll take fifty hot mirror selfies, post the blurriest one to my insta story (and probably delete it in the morning), and maybe send it to my ex if I get bored. If I cry in the Uber, it’s not sad. It’s performance art!!!

Lizzy

I’ve reapplied my perfume three times already. It always smells so deliciously expensive in the air, but idk if I like it on my skin. I normally wouldn’t wear this dress, but my boyfriend said “have fun” in that weird tone again. I don’t even like this bar, I’m just here because everyone else is. I need to see the people and know the vibes, but I’m not dancing. I’m

not sweating. I’ll pretend to sip on something pink. People-watching is free...and some of these outfits are criminal. If I get bored I’ll just take some cute pics, maybe pocket one of those precious vintage dishes again. They won’t miss it. I deserve a little treasure.

god help

the man that

tries to

ruin my vibe tonight

Dorothy

Okay. Phone? Check. Lipgloss? Check. Did I just double-text the Uber driver a thank-you heart? Yes. Whatever. I feel so good tonight. Warm in the fun way, not the drunk way (yet!!!!). This top is cute but practical. I’ve got mints, I’ve got gum, I’ve got a tampon — plus an extra if anyone needs one. Honestly, I love being the bathroom mom.

Someone’s gotta hold your purse and tell you you’re beautiful! I might kiss a girl tonight. I’ve been thinking about it. Or maybe I’ll just kiss everybody’s cheeks. I don’t know. I just want to have a good time and make sure everyone gets home in one piece. No bad vibes allowed. God help the man who tries to ruin my vibe tonight.

One more pickleback and I’ll be unstoppable. I’ve been in a mood all day — like I need to either scream or make out with someone in a hallway. This skirt is barely legal and these heels are giving p*ssyc*nt danger. My boyfriend would hate this outfit. Good! I hope there’s a little table I can climb on and dance...Maybe I’ll kiss someone I shouldn’t. I’ll order shots for the table and then when they show up scream and pass them around. No excuses girls!!! Ugh. I love when nights feel like a movie. I need to scream that new Lady Gaga song with my whole body tonight. If a titty slips out it was meant to happen. And if it’s on camera...Isn’t that what photoshop’s for?!

Sophia

Whitney

I’m drinking cider out of a wine glass because duh. The lighting in here is trash but like, in a way I can use. Took film pics of the girls getting ready, but tbd if I’ll ever let them see them. Depends on how I’m feeling when I get them back. Maybe they’re just for me. I’m wearing sunglasses because I want to stare at people without them knowing. I hope we end up somewhere weird tonight. Somewhere with a jukebox or like... taxidermy. I want to flirt with someone who talks about books. I want to slow dance to something sad. Or just sit in the corner and look iconic. Cause I look like I belong in a bathroom stall photo from 2006 and talk like I have some dark family secret. If the bar has hot dogs, you know I’m getting one (3).

Drew

I think this top is actually a pajama shirt? But it feels right. My hair smells like rosemary and I can’t stop looking at the tinsel I spent five hours tying in this afternoon glittering in the mirror. I have no idea what’s in this drink Dorothy made me, but it tastes like a dream. I’m not really here for the bar. Whenever I’m out I feel like I’m half in a dream the whole time

anyway. I’m here to be with my girls, on the walk there, when we’re all loud and tipsy and invincible. I’ll probably end up holding everyone’s jackets or shoes but I don’t mind. I always run into someone I know. Last time I went out a boy told me I looked like a renaissance painting. Did he even know I’m an art student? I didn’t correct him though — he wasn’t wrong !!

DELIVERANCE

Direction

DELIVERANCE

Styling

Abby Hahn

Choreography

Emma Katz

Modeling

Allison O’Bara

Emily Lu

Maddy Crawford

Meredith Schatz

Michaela Sewall

Shawn �u

Sophie Ni

Layout

Jialing Sun

I. OMNISCIENCE

The mortal sin, Our fall from grace. Desperate fingers clawing upward, Slipping back into the suffocating dark.

Scrambling upward, Through corrupted shadows, Hands blistered, charred, Dragged down again.

Cowering on all fours, Afraid and powerless, Whispered confessions, Muttered prayers betrayed.

Hidden sins murmured

Hidden sins murmured Behind closed doors, Invisible but not erased, Known without exception.

Dragging others down with you, Yearning to escape, Trapped by fear Of consequence and accountability.

Why seek salvation, On top of others’ pain, What redemption is there In the wounds left behind?

Always being watched, A presence you know is near, No shadow hollow enough To hide your choking guilt.

Each secret remembered, Every harm laid bare, Climbing toward forgiveness, Barred from true escape.

In the ascent to salvation, Ignoring every soul you’ve beaten down, But the all-knowing gaze Witness to it all.

II. OMNIPRESENCE

OMNIPRESENCE

Our façade of devotion, Sacrifices on the altar, Grand chapels erected,

To conceal the hollowness within.

Ritual and performance Rule over internal transformation, Outward gestures

Replacing inward change.

The moment just before the sacrifice

A hesitant breath reveals The shallow depth of our faith, Regret follows.

Consumed by external perceptions, While the inside rots away.

Decay spreading beneath layers Of meticulously constructed holiness.

Hands raised towards the sky, In staged righteousness, Performed supplication, Intended only for the neighbor’s eyes.

Blind to our faults, Yet perfectly seen.

Desperate clinging to autonomy, Then fearful of our own actions

We pray for miracles, Crave a divine force, Praying to erase All the harm done.

Always watched, Never hidden, Performative morality made known. The truth finally laid bare.

Divine mercy

Will not spare us In the end.

One power sees through every act.

Guilt cleared away Without repentance Is just guilt covered up The illusion of innocence without sacrifice.

Granted freedom, We falter, Yet still fear blame. Our actions bind us.

The one true power–Moral responsibility–Commands us all. We plead for mercy but shun accountability.

OMNIPOTENCE

There exists a choice

There exists a choice: Confront our failings Or cling to empty gestures. Which do we choose?

choose?

We met the band Thyrce (made up of singer Maverick, DJ Leo, and lyricist Will) to discuss their second album, their origins, and their vision for what’s to come.

I: Hey, guys. Congratulations on your second release! How cool has it been seeing such a massive response to your music?

M: Yeah, it’s been really cool. Honestly, we never would’ve expected something like this. It’s been really lucky, having so many people hear our stuff and resonate with it.

L: After our first album, it was kind of like, okay, that was fine. Let’s do it again and see what happens.

I: Talk to me about what you wanted to do differently this time around. I mean, you obviously sped up the tempo and really layered on the synthesizers, but what else changed?

L: Yeah, I guess we wanted it to have a more full sound. I felt like that was just the direction we needed to go, to capture how we’ve been feeling.

And we wanted to be able to dance around on stage more.

W: I don’t know why, but the lyrics turned out a lot simpler than what I usually write. Not a lot of big metaphors and stuff.

I: Well, it’s clearly captured a lot of people! And now you’re preparing for your own headline tour! Is there anything you guys are doing to prepare, any rituals or final things before you leave home again?

M: Not really. We still have our jams a couple times a week. We’re trying to just keep it casual, I think, so it doesn’t get to be too much.

I: So, I’ve done a little research and not found much about how you guys started, other than that you met in college. Could you tell me a little more about creating the

band and what brought you together as artists?

L: Mutual friends introduced us in school and we were like, yo, you like the same kind of music as me. Maverick can sing and Will can write. One day I was messing around with a beat, and then Maverick kinda freestyled a melody with some words Will [had written], and it sounded pretty good. That was a lot of fun, at the beginning, just seeing what we could make. And from there we just kept going, pretty much. We keep messing around and seeing what we feel like.

I: What would be the “I made it” moment for you guys—or have you already had it?

M: I don’t know if I’ve thought about that. I don’t know about “making it.” Like, it’s not on my radar.

L: Yeah, trying to make big goals like that makes me feel sick. I try to stick to the here and now. Be present.

I: So you’re all big on going with the flow.

M: Yeah, I’d say we take it day by day and see what we gotta do, what we wanna do, and…what we’re having for dinner, I don’t know. No matter how big we get, we don’t wanna start getting ahead of ourselves.

c

The electro-pop trio has been steadily rising in fame since their first release, skyrocketing this past winter with their second.

The electro-pop trio has been steadily rising in fame since their first release, skyrocketing this past winter with their second. Now they’re on their first headlining tour across the United States, drawing crowds of fans draped in crochet tops and haphazardly-knotted ties. We talked to a few audience members at shows all over the country to find out what draws people to Thryce’s shows.

Kylee Briggs, an Atlanta local, makes collages and graphics of Thryce lyrics, and she’s printed them out all over her bedroom walls. “No other artist can put my feelings into words so simply,” she explains. “A lot of the projects I do for my graphic design classes at school end up being fanart, because it’s my favorite stuff to make when the assignment allows.” At their Atlanta show, Briggs is even

sporting a shirt she made herself, which is screen-printed with lyrics from the band’s debut album.

Her boyfriend, Jamie Fisher, said in a matching shirt of his own: “Kylee got me into Thryce when we first met…then when they became my favorite band, too, she was like, ‘You can’t be more into them than me! They’re my thing!’ But they’ve really brought us together in a way. We bond over loving their music and their vibe. And all the stuff she makes that’s inspired by them, it’s obviously so cool.”

Over in San Diego, Georgia Li told us about how Thryce inspired her to start her own band. “When they talked about finding each other in college and starting to play music together, it made it seem so easy all of a sudden. I realized there was nothing to be afraid of, and I found

i b e u

people at my school who liked to play the same kind of music as me, and I showed them some songs I’d written, and it just worked out. It’s the most fulfilling thing I’ve pushed myself to do in the last five years.”

She isn’t the only fan that Thryce has encouraged to follow their own musical pursuits. In Nashville, we talked to Halley and Alex Adams, a sibling pair that blew up on the Internet for their ornate acoustic covers of Thryce songs. “I think it’s cool to transform something that you find interesting into your own version of it,” Alex explained, “and other people must find it cool as well.” Halley added, “When we found out Thryce had seen our videos and commented, we jumped around the house and screamed for like, ten minutes. We’re working on a whole album now because

we feel like we have a following to give it to, and it’s all because of this band,” she said, motioning to the yet-empty stage.

“What really sticks out to me about Thryce is that they never feel pinned to any one thing,” Rodrigo Katz told us in Washington, D.C. “If you listen to their whole discography and don’t think about it much, each album could be made by a different band. And that’s the fun of it. You have something for every mood and whim. It’s music made for a whole lifetime.”

a

Cupidus, Fall 2025

staff

Executive Members

Director of Copy

Director of External Events

Andrew Wang

Director of Finance

Director of Layout

Directors of Styling

Directors of Internal Events

Director of Social Media

Director of Video & BTS

Director of Photography

Director of Web

list

Saivee Ahuja

Claire Ackley

River Alsalihi

Noah Beck Kim

Biswash Bhattarai

Emily Blake

Josie Blough

Gabriela Brenes

Jose Villicana Brugada

Elena Caballero

Nicolas Cevallos

Naomi Chao

Aiden Cole

Maeve Collins

Gabriella Cullen

Tirza Elliott

Sophie Floyd

Adrian Fuller

Ja’la Fuller

Jared Garelick

Levin Garson

Yael Goldwasser

Lavina Grzymajlo

Claire Gwak

Eloise Harcourt

Project Manager

Dorothy Harbaugh

Tyler Hanson Mathur

Chelsea Haye

Violet Holah

Sofia Huitron

Mia Hurtado

Natalia Jamula

Lé-Anne Johnson

Hera Kim

Eileen Kim

Joohee Kim

Seo-Eun Kim

Viktoriia Knyaz

Andy Li

Judy Li

Rose Liu

Erin Lee

Phoenix Lee

Priscilla Lee

Emma Lichtman

Emily Lapidus

Lizzy Larscheid

Fiona Lyons-Carlson

Ingrid Lyons-Carlson

Drew Mahlmeister

Zakalik Project Manager

Sophia Maldonado

Myra Malik

Reid McVey

Ana Mitreva

Madison Morris

Lakshmi Mulgund

Amaris Ninah

Gillian Nevins-Sauders

Chiby Onyeador

Christina Oates

Margo Ogrosky

Evelyn Pae

Sofia Perez

Chandra Phenpimon

Jess Piard

Robin Pyo

Faheem Rahman

Liora Raimondi

Nina Rosell

Natalie Rodriguez

Arielle Roybal

David Schantz

Gray Scherma

Max Selver

Michaela Sewall

Sharon Shen

Jakob Shenfeld

Whitney Short

Lacey Shin

Seth Skiles

Olivia Slemmer

Camille Smith

Nora Silvergleid

Ben Stull

Jialing Sun

Carolyn Tang

McKale Thompson

Mira Ugwuadu

Brynne Venneman

Cami Vynerib

Jackie Wang

Andrew Wang

Chloe Wetzler

Ryan Yin

Erika Yanou

Nissi Yorke

Talia Zakalik

Alison Zhu

Kendra Zhong

This magazine was produced at Washington University in St. Louis in 2025.

Special thanks to the layout team: Maeve Collins, Sofia Huitron, Violet Holah, Christina Oates, Evelyn Pae, Sophia Palitti and Jialing Sun .

Typefaces used include: Beastly, Cormorant SC, Helvetica Now, ITC Avant Garde Gothic Pro, Kings Caslon, OT Brut, PP Editorial Old, Yatra One.

Always be cupidus.