
Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
sigh Look, I'm contractually obligated to tell you about Prism Poet, born when some totally tubular disc golfer accidentally dropped their Ray-Bans mid-throw in '87. The shades split the sunset into pure aesthetic, creating sentient light-poetry that now haunts tag 84. Because apparently that's a thing we do now? Whatever, it's giving main character energy and I'm just the narrator trapped in this neon nightmare. Will this chrome-plated wordsmith find love on the course?