There is a syrup tasting carnivorous urge to conquer sexual ineptitude in overbearing glances and center the camera in the infinite void of consensual reflections of nothingness. But you will dance unlike you have ever danced before, with threads of everything you know, repackaged in metastatic digital packets of data rapidly going nowhere, blinking quickly into things outside the periphery of consciousness and knowledge, towards digital sickness that thirsts for absolution. Not even the rabid gnashing of your teeth can escape the banal. Better to grin at the costumes floating about and accept the perpetual post-Panoptic suspension.
