automatic closing door
where the throttle at
queue negation
we don't frequent where you idle at
right past foyer
stepping over bottle rats
she plugged in
still had to wait
just like a model S
what's understood
never gotta be explained
they still want big smoke
like the bike and train
even if my brother wrong
he got still the right of way
if dialogue was better
the hood wouldn't have hydroplaned
out the gangway
four door infiniti
ancestral
orchestral
that's divinity
loft space
la marais
with amenites
and you only sliding on the net
like sea anemone
she read his message
and continued on with her sentencing
she said i like to make him think that i'm listening
she only kept him archival
for the kindling (e-booked)
thought you was doc brown
the way you turn trash into energy
quadtrack
drivetrain
upshift
merge lane
transplant stick shift in impreza
she said you switch gears
better be impressive
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The gas station settles with a quiet, loaded tension.
The kind of tension that runs in a place where the air has been broken in for too long, where the rules are what you make them and the game is always about what's unsaid.
It's a gas station at the edge of nowhere—past the gunline, the sort of place where only the desperate come for a reason they don't want to talk about.
And then there's the eyes.
The eyes watching you like they've been doing for years—kids, maybe 10 or 20, standing there, sizing you up, waiting for you to slip, to give something away.
A little flicker, a glance that tells them you're one of them or not.
"Where you from?"
"You know so-and-so?"
"You look like one of them."
And it goes on like that.
A rhythm.
A pulse.
The search for signs.
The street always watches, testing, measuring.
It doesn't matter how deep you are in the game—you can always tell when you're being hunted by the ones who know more than you.
It's all about survival.
Every day, every hour, you have to be something you're not.
Be something different.
Just to keep breathing. But the real reason? To be the man. The one who gets to call the shots. Even if everything you stand on is made of crumbling ash.
And yet, this gas station—this isn't the end of the road.
It's just a pause.
An interlude between what's now and what's coming.
The city? The big one, the one that feeds everything, is on its way down, too.
Inflation, control, and money—the ones with the power—the oligarchs who don't care about the people but care about keeping the power in their hands.
It doesn't matter though.
In the streets, the real work is done with bodies, not with words.
That's where the next chapter begins—where the Replicants come in.
The ones made to serve, to fit. They've got all the answers, all the conversation, all the love.
They're programmed for every desire, for every need.
A new breed, built by algorithms, stitched together by human hands but soulless.
But they're not human.
They never were.
Just a new system of power, a fresh coat of paint on the old house of suffering.
It's the same transaction in a new suit.
The machine's coming, and it's going to look a lot like you.
And that's the moment when vyle. steps back out of it all.
Looks around, watches as the clouds twist in the air, forming patterns that tell him: keep going.
Even if the world looks like it's ending, keep pushing forward—because maybe, just maybe, there's something better waiting.
No lines.
No questions.
The doors open for him as he steps back in, turning the corner of whatever happens next.
And the machine hums along, unaware, as he leaves it all behind.