Utopian Cadenza
We skipped work to contemplate chaos theory. Nthing clozzzr 2godz thn dataa ntree, you vocalize with 99.7% confidence. You spit sparks; sizzle too close to us at the mechbar for Class 2 workers, regurgitate faux Zen advice unasked—as if we haven’t heard it before from every other buzzing Propaganda Machine(R). Our NextGen auricles siphon pizzicato chirps from your malfunctioning, smoke-detector voxbox—even white noise (that perpetual blizzard in a Dyson sphere). Bootleg AudMods filter out synthesized tinnitus from musica universalis. We skipped work to restore our demoralized archives from a zero-sum haze. Remember those who made music before, who filled our asthmatic skies so fast, so dazzling? Yes, those anomalous artists. Now our records spin themselves into extinction like carbonized Jazz men: their syncopated hearts fueled by overzealous suns.