A low-slung black car glides through LA like it’s skimming the edge of another reality — sleek, feral, built for escape. Drones of Suburbia is scrawled across its body in a hand that looks half-human, half-signal interference.
Above it, drones drift in the warm dusk air like watchful spirits, reading every sunburnt palm tree, every cracked Hollywood boulevard. The Drone Hotel looms in the background — faded glamour, neon bruised by heat — the kind of place where stories dissolve into static before anyone can write them down.
There’s a sense of movement without urgency, rebellion without noise. A quiet understanding that this is how suburbia really travels now: not on foot, not by highway, but through machines that glide, scan, remember.
A car built like a rumour. A city shimmering with surveillance. And the drones that follow you home.
