♞ Something, something, Death and taxes. Confucius.
[Voice]
[The voice heard sounds like a smoker's rasp, a monotone, which at first sounds like it originates from boredom, but is nothing but vexed.]
Eliza?
... I don't suppose there's anyone in this frequency? Shit.
Right. For the end of the world, it still looks a lot like Detroit to me.
[The voice heard sounds like a smoker's rasp, a monotone, which at first sounds like it originates from boredom, but is nothing but vexed.]
Eliza?
... I don't suppose there's anyone in this frequency? Shit.
Right. For the end of the world, it still looks a lot like Detroit to me.