"Everythig old is new again," - Peter Allen. Art in the 21st century, beset by postwar malaise, has reorganized itself into an accoustical archway through which its own echos are repeatedly funnelled, deconstructed, and repurposed into a soylent greenlike popular culture ration, scarfed down heartily by the proletariat who yearn for respite from the wearying grind of late stage capitalism. Now the Wordle Friends, too, have discovered the untapped power of reliving their own glory days; of retracing their own steps.
In which the Wordle Friends forget to mention that it's the first night of Hanukkah and instead talk about orbs for some reason.
After improbability rears its abominable head, the Wordle Friends are beseiged by chaos.
Punished by August's vicious difficulty spike, resentment begins to rear its ugly head between the Wordle Friends. But the boys are in this together,...