In XR, color becomes pain. Taste the rainbow after the finishing move, after the firing squad goes home. Lounge on a flatline behind a TV dinner while watching the artificial sunset dance. Bands of pollutants are stretched over the flicker. A throbbing arp doesn’t let you forget your headache, the sinus pressure. Its sounds are a reminder of the gunfire, now ceased due to lack of ammunition. The only sound that remains is the dead signal, a burp from a corpse below the curve. From inside the casket, view the sunset, and smell the processed meat and melted plastic, burnt amplifiers, dying color.
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