Branko noticed, on his digital map, a more valuable creature called a Serbox. It was extracting and retracting tongues from its hands. It was dancing like a Cossack outside of a destroyed public housing project.

Decadence looks around, sees nothing but rotten fruit, and gathers it in sticky armfuls to distill into liqueur. It does this in an informedly fatalist manner, taking pride in its self-awareness but without the hope that such insight will provide any way forward.

Island of nerds and simps. I fear you will never break the cycles you came here to escape.