Friday The Furbteenth πΈ
What better way to mark The Day of Horror than to stumble soul-ajar, into an art gallery thick with the psychic residue of Furby monstrosities? Their plastic gazes follow you, their synthetic chatter echoing like the chant of some forgotten cult, each one a cursed idol dredged from the neon swamp of childhoodβs collective fever dream.



I laughed. Or maybe I screamed. Itβs hard to tell anymore.