Thanks to signal towers generating auroras on their own, people no longer need to journey to the Arctic Circle to witness the spectacle. I scanned the barcode formed by the crosswalk; it displayed the death records of delivery riders at this intersection. People have begun placing urns in food delivery lockers. Reality here is buckling under its own weight, with the number of universes increasing by three each day. The response I received was to wait for further notice: "Overcrowding is normal. It means reality is still fermenting."

The subway has ceased operation, but the tracks continue to rust. Billboards have succumbed to aphasia, their texts transforming into strands of noodles. Curled up on a subway seat, I watch through the window as vending machines exchange homesick signals with turnstiles via electromagnetic waves. Every time the vending machines get emotional, they spit out bottles of orange soda. Television screens are dimmer than ever. I see seawater engulfing New York. Kim Jong-un sits atop the Statue of Liberty, crying. His tears fall into the ocean, giving rise to tiny mushroom clouds on the waves.