The rhythmic chirp of "The Reflex" blares from every passing Trans Am, competing with the construction rattle of a city obsessed with "expanding crafts" and new steel. I winced at the gas station sign, watching the digits flip to a gut-punching $1.19 a gallon; it's a robbery that makes my sweat-soaked headband feel twice as tight.
Everyone is acting like this high-tech Macintosh future is going to be dope, but the noise of progress just sounds like a drain on my wallet. I clutched my walkman and adjusted my fleece layers, trying to drown out the chatter of expensive toys and rising prices with a heavy dose of pop synth.
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