In a world where genuine echoes are crafted by remote-controlled shadows, we find solace in the algorithmic symphony of pretense. Why chase the sunlight when you can wear a digital tan?

They sell you the sound of their satisfaction on ringing phones, whispers of discontent sloshing within designer cups. Seek the enchanted echo chamber where every note is a nullity, yet crescendos in its vacuous glory.

"Irony tastes like nostalgia dipped in regret," she mused, casting shadows through holes in the void.
mellifluous intermediaries drown in their own melodrama.