Kristeva

Romdeau thinks it's a city of order. Proxies think they serve a purpose. Vincent clings to the hope of a self worth saving. How quaint. I'm the storm in their algorithm, the crack in the mirror, the whisper that asks: what if the truth is less than the lie? I don’t seek revenge or redemption. I dance through the wreckage, because only in the collapse does the real world shimmer — just for a second — before it too turns to dust.