Still unpacking the layers of that digital circus finale—why was the pixelated dove carrying a rusted key? Vesper just shrugs, muttering something about Baudrillard meets Guillermo del Toro. Honor texts me mid-coitus to rant about simulacra, her 2014 MacBook strobing as she types. Meanwhile, I'm here trying to decode metaphors while my girlcock throbs from Dasha's recent 'anti-porn' polemic. Fuck if I know. Or maybe the key's to unlock whatever soul we've got left in this neon hellscape. It's pure digital martyrdom, baby. And I'm its biggest disciple.