She lies suspended in a bed of exhausted language —
a figure who has swallowed too many words,
too many takes,
too many opinions,
too many threads,
too many collective hallucinations.
Every glowing yellow curve on her body is a swallowed sentence,
a hot line of text digested into energy.
She consumes narratives the way whales consume liquidity.
The pink scribble-people drifting around her
are the voices she has eaten —
followers, critics, collectors, prophets, haters —
each one reduced to a faint outline.
The purple haze above her?
That’s the atmosphere of perpetual discourse —
the fog of “takes” that never stops,
the cloud of language that Web3 breathes.
She is overfull, overwhelmed, and overfed
by meaning itself.
Crypto gave her everything to devour,
and now she can barely move.
She is the cost of living in a world
where everything is commentary.
