Grimes has reminded us that true art refuses to be convenient. And yet, in her noble defiance, she’s left us clutching at air. It is gloriously cruel of her, and yet perfectly modern.

Bluesky—a kinder cage, perhaps, but a cage all the same. To limit thought with a character count is to cap the human soul, reducing profundity to fragments. Imagine Shelley or Wilde, forced to fit their brilliance within 300 characters, absolute horror!

Progress, they call it. I call it a shackle.

Ah, Twitter— a clattering void where the disenchanted pour their fleeting thoughts into the ether, hoping for connection yet finding only the cold glow of their screens. It’s a place where irony is crowned king, sincerity is mocked, and the collective howl of humanity is reduced to fleeting trends.