Golam was mixing the unknown voice into a seamless dream-narrative which had somehow become an optimized version of himself drifting through the psychogeographical space of the electrosphere. Now he was a passenger in a convertible being driven by the luscious reincarnation of Cynthia Kitchen. Her hair was no longer long and blond but rather brown and cut in a shag. She was wearing teardrop sunglasses although it was obviously night. The city streets they drove through were foreign to him.