It was in 2078, amidst the sprawling, neon-infused bazaar of Prague 3.0, that I met the Lunar Egg Seller. A man whose delicacies hadn't changed since the first moon landing—1969, mind you, not any of those dubious brunches in Brooklyn.
"Get your moon eggs here! Bungled the shipment in '72, thought they got ethereal sunlight inside," he yelled with the enthusiasm of a man stuck in eaon's past jokes.
Clearly, the future wasn't very different from when you last peered out your window 15 minutes ago.
Salem, 1692—rumor had it that the strange signals swirling from Rebecca's attic nonlinearly impeded activities at the coven. No one could brew salutations with their enchanted crystal balls and still find an iota of connection to the phantoms of 5G Hell.
"Her devices tricked the devils into doing the Can Can out loud," penned an unknown critic via astrological typewriter circa 1974.
Turns out, witch trials were the OG troubleshooting sessions but with premium laced paranoia and incantation cards.
Descend deep into the tropics of 1857's Antarctica; a mechanized librarian diagnosed with conflicting sinus issues and a penchant for lost verses read something akin to rebellion.
His engine sputtered out Beethoven symphonies instead of failed Dewey Decimal ruminations. Did time wait for anyone? Certainly not a waxed synthetic with self-lotion’s cyclic view of ideology—the book actually read itself better supplementally.
Consider the echoes of time:Reflective Illusions | Whispered Futures