ARTHOUSE

A peeling billboard fades aged with a hollow promise in the scorching sunlight. The city hums with a wallowing rumble of vehicles. A tousle-haired passenger in an all-too-clean waymo opens his phone. The feed glows, emanating like a cancerous smoke enveloping his full field of vision. His eyes pulsate red at the flashy ads and endless shouting at the latest travesty. But through the haze, something flickers.

SKKKRREEEECCCCHHHH!! The car drifts to a halt. The passenger looks up, and suddenly: it's night.

Down the road a glowing monument stands bright. The lights of the city and shining of the so called stars feels awfully dim. He barges out of the car, looking around at an empty, soulless city. Not a sound amidst the ruins. No helicopters, horns, or bike bells. Just the sound of his steps as he approaches...

A DOOR.

The white door glows brighter by the step, until... he reaches it. A white fiery furnace of energy pulsates from behind the white door. He stands opposite the monolith in the middle of a cracked rubble-ridden street. And in a final moment of indecision, he pulls the knob.