It’s fascinating how certain audiovisual-interactive projects manage to accidentally transcend their own superficiality and become a mirror in which you can’t not see yourself — and this particular digital record of human degeneration achieves exactly that, not because of its quality, but because it refuses to pretend to be anything else.

The entire experience operates on the threshold between nihilistic repetition and emotionally neutered transcendence, where every mouse click functions as a rhythmic impulse toward a quiet, bottomless self-awareness — not as an expression of desire, but as the leftover residue of motor reflex, still pulsing through the body long after the brain has left the room.

The surrounding characters don’t move naturally — but that’s exactly the point. Nothing natural is happening anymore. The rhythm, the cycle, the observation, the interruption, the release — not as a goal, but as a consequence. One that doesn’t require regret, because regret requires value. And value is precisely what’s absent, which is why everything here feels so strangely intentional. This is digital purgatory, where you're not waiting for redemption — just for the next level.

And when the stage arrives bearing a name that should symbolize collapse, it doesn’t function as a warning — it’s confirmation that collapse already happened. That the moment of return passed somewhere between attempts four and five, when “lol this is funny” quietly shifted into an unspoken agreement with everything that follows.

It’s not even a joke. It’s momentum. And the one who endures doesn’t win — they just adapt.