Atomic Blonde

We see as through a CRT, darkly, the fragility and absurd dignity of the naked human form, with transiently-conscious meatsacks numbing pain with alternating ice and fire as they shamble toward arbitrary goals. Briefly, magically ambulatory, then suddenly, permanently still.

Time-capsule plotting, endlessly and needlessly Byzantine. Betrayal leading to revelation leading fractally to a new cycle as we try to ignore that there is nothing inside the final matryoshka doll, and never was. There is no satisfying end to the game, because the game has no win state except the one we make up when we can no longer continue to play. In the end, nothing remains except the toxic, world-warping detritus of the superpowers’ roadside picnic.

But what a glorious, terrible mess it can be, with a spy who might have wanted to be a poet once but can only survive as a rock star, fronting high-contrast fashions amid grimy backdrops, lit by neon pulsing like a cut artery, strutting to the urgent throb of pop music that is everywhere and nowhere at once.

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