Unedited observations | 3

The IRG has grown. 
In plenty. 
Monocropped to shit. 
Small, rhythmic bumps run through each strip. 
But this rhythm isn’t the sort of chaotic, uneven, joy of a primary school being given a tin whistle for every child. 
No. 
The rhythms in the IRG are 120bpm. 
The techno one hears in the sticky floors of a basement at the point of the night where you’ve accepted you’re not gonna pull. 
Only a computer can make that rhythm. 
You shudder to think it could be AI. 
The IRG isn’t a sickly shade anymore. 
It’s worse. 
Muted. 
No tonal variety. 
Is it even alive? 
Every blade had been copied and pasted. 
It wants to be the windows 12 desktop. 

Two swallows momentarily swoop over. 
They aren’t even sure.