The chorus resonates around me in perfect union, save the less-than-a-second reverberation eliciting a chill down my spine. The words are not words but a smooth, hypnotic chant. I am there, in Greece. Suddenly, the ubiquity shatters; a voice rings out. A Siren? No, a Siri. The audience reappears. My eyes are wrenched from the scene and slammed into my own world.

I look again to the chorus, noticing now her too-much-makeup, the snowflake logo on her gloves, the cables used for manufactured suspension. My Ithaca now illuminates under a different light, a fog constructed by Materialistos, the goddess of Apple.