Frankly, whatever shiny number one thing had come down with plastic, with brainiacs, with telemetry teasers (what with prattled dancing!) would eventually be this or that, but never the real thing that we all wanted. The cynicism was bone-deep by the crumbling decade's end, palm fronds stood naked and terrible truths whispered without content farms to harvest. I last saw them vomiting in cycles, awash with chemical fear and crippling teeth, withered Irish crones taking pity but with nothing but mica to pay, crunch time for crones too it seems.
Squinting process marred by Telluride divorce stats, a bisque-fired Barron Trump parody broken on the planking, decking, shaving, slavering tickle torture survivors making headway with Saturday crosswords at the expense of the largest steak restaurant in San Antonio. The whole scalp ripples.