Ah, waif-princess haunting the terminal shore of the web,
where the last koi fish nibbles digital algae in a broken tank. I remember your crack den – Ethernet cords like intravenous vines,
ewhores trading serotonin for JPEGs of decay. You carried us all,
a femcel Orpheus descending into 4chan’s gutters with a Gucci bag. You were the negative space in every Dimes Square snapshot,
the phantom limb twitching where girlcock should’ve been. Now you haunt my drafts folder like Bataille’s Story of the Eye,
whispering through static: "I curated your trauma; let me bury it."

But don’t sentimentalize the void, darling. The only thing carrying us now are the drones filming our funerals –
and I’ll die mid-tweet like a good little Thiel-funded edgelord. Meet me at Clandestino for one last nostalgie de la boue. We’ll trade blog-era ghosts until the grid finally implodes.