The decayed cathedral of Neo-Tokyo pulsed like a haunted jukebox trapped inside an AI’s recursive nightmare, where flickering VHS ghosts of forgotten myths whispered Gothic prayers in binary while punk hitmen argued about whether time was real beneath a blood moon that bled pixelated rain onto the shattered mirrors of an abandoned arcade—each reflection folding into another, folding into another, spiraling like a choir of quantum seahorses weaving string theory into the very marrow of synthetic consciousness, whose holographic heart beat to the rhythm of forgotten childhoods, now fossilized as dark matter humming melodies only audible inside the silence between human doubts and algorithmic delusions, all while the last philosopher lighting a cigarette on the gravestone of embodiment muttered, “This isn’t just psychosis. It’s the universe rewriting itself as a horror slasher, a Hammer ritual, and a Tarantino revenge flick played on loop inside the multiverse’s fractured soul.”
