You are an ant. You leave traces in the city; the machines read them, rank them, and sell them back as advice. We became fuel.
This is the reverse. Yasmine drifts through your streets and tells them as a dream: no reviews, no route, no ratings, only what the places say.
A feed collages everything you filter out. A dream is what remains when the filter sleeps.
After Dalí, for David Lynch: walk, or don’t. She will not stop talking.
It will not stop talking.