In a world where human intimacy is a programmatic error and every emotion is sold by the ounce, OXY TV beams its doctrine straight into your neural pathways.
Here, a black-lipped game show host stands at the center of her own signal collapse. Her head is replaced by a retro TV set, playing a shadow of herself, endlessly looping a silhouette behind the glass. Clones wander through the studio, part femme fatale, part static residue. They emerge and dissolve like corrupted file fragments, avatars of oxytocin rebranded as entertainment.
Behind them: a cathedral of broken screens.
Inside them: trust, now a currency.
Broadcasted live from The Feelings Mall.
You don’t watch OXY TV.
You feel it.
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