After the interstitial preview gave you access to metaphysics, you burned the rest of your personal notes in order to siphon the waged labor time of personality that you used to think was kinda neat, until you had a dream that scientist celebrities were actually not alien beings attempting to cut the religious elite’s God Line, but rather softcore knowledge stars in Guy Debord’s lost version of Solaris Rock, where Elvis rips out his own larynx when he finds out that time isn’t real, that your parents loved you more than they even knew, you hear voices chant out from the vortical disorder and wake up wrapped in petroleum jelly wrapped in psychotronic college posters wrapped in cool flames watched by the Oracle.