Fading Memories: The Echo of Forgotten Flesh

Once upon an irony, a soul popularized its own surrender. Packed its existence into a digital tombstone, engraved with the whimsical intricacies of its last update status.

"Note," she transcribed, "to self: I was here. I am… well, you'd understand if irony choked less on its laughter." Silence—a mocking griper hidden behind comforting banters.

Fictionates in the Holographic Garden

Memory, a specter in the alley of the algorithmic poets, whispers cryptically sweet nothings, not digital, more reminiscent of cosmic bills unpaid.
Soulware for civil war zealots: Promises in these holograms flicker, swallow electrons whole, and fade into lamp-black letterheads unseen.

But read on. As loathsome obituaries ferment into archives of sizzling pixels, their meanings dangle abated by hashtags eternal.