All the happy drugs in the world won’t save you now, as you approach the big end of the night, where every poison pixel feeds the post-visual delirium of a giant black hole screen. The Dark Vangelis opens its toothless mouth and the scream of the Antimatter Universe becomes clear, melancholic, poignantly synthesized for your private suicidal relief. Neon blood of Neo-Russia spurts in even streams, saturating underground elevators, filling your hungry eyes with edible tears of true analog euphoria. Glittering casinos crumble like stale bread right in front of your mind’s dilating window. Oiled strippers shed their voyeuristic skin while million cells in your overloaded cortex applaud and masturbate. These ethereal notes could straight up kill you but the Final Broadcast is almost over and you must pay for more, ASAP, my friend.