I was blindfolded, thrown into a car and driven for hours before we reached their secret lair, which I now believe might be a sub, sub basement floor underneath Houston Galleria Macy’s or inside a volcano, whichever.
Hollering about Texas with a perfect Southern drawl. My Pillow peers claimed that I mentioned Texas once every 31 minutes (yes, they kept track). It was my only retort to the “There's art in Texas?” question.
Here, YouTube rabbit-holes have become otherworldly and the Internet is the stage where the best magic happens. The exhibition is a sort of “ghost in the machine,” the ectoplasm of conspiracy theories and the spiritualism of singularity.
