A long, over-engineered mechanical body dragging itself through a world it barely understands, cables everywhere like frantic neural pathways firing in the wrong direction, colours too bright, too fast, too messy. A head full of static mosaics and artificial light, glowing like it’s convinced it has a soul but glitching every time it tries to use it. Those tendrils — gods, the tendrils — they look like runaway thought-threads, each one pulling in a different direction, none of them connected to the body in any emotionally coherent way. Beautiful, chaotic, overstimulated, and utterly incapable of seeing where it’s going. And then there’s the posture. Dragging itself forward instead of walking. Half reaching, half collapsing.
