The Prophecy
A small room that smells like a January night. Not cold exactly — warm in the way that being stoned and talking to a machine at 2 AM is warm. The walls are covered in voice-to-text transcription, the kind where the punctuation is wrong and the line breaks happen wherever the speaker paused to think. The text spirals around the room in a single continuous strip, like a receipt that never stops printing. You can read fragments as you walk the walls: