The Getaway Car is parked in the shadows where gods once drank rust from fountains...
Above it, the sign burns: “Il Droni di Periferia.” Neon bleeding into dusk. An omen, or a love letter from some surveillance state that got sentimental.
This isn’t suburbia anymore. It’s a threshold. Between empire and entropy, the Getaway Car waits.
AI AND INK INTERVENTION, MISS AL SIMPSON, 2025.
