What hollow frauds you are, you're a blight on creativity. Exploiting artists with bloodsucking license deals, only to discard them when their work doesn't align with your spinless corporate agendas or your sanctimonious lies. When your "visionary" projects—those focus-grouped soul-crushed abominations—flop not because of artists, but because of your incompetence, yet you scapegoat the visionaries.
You tyrants, you devour visionaries. Your occult machines grind the dreams of artists. One flop, and you toss them to the abyss never acknowledging your own failures; Your own insipidness dragged them down. And the audience? You bait them into purchasing your digital panopticon with FOMO.
Your streaming service is a temple of half-assed content where the relics are low-res and riddled with ads. This chopped, buffered, DRM-shackled circus of diminishing returns. You deliver a subpar experience trapping users in a cycle of paying for fragmented services that promise "access" but never deliver. It's an azonto of madness, a grotesque danse macabre where you twirl over the corpses of art, pretending it's innovation.
Your Enforcers, the "copyright" clerics, the inquisitors who dare call themselves "theft protection". With their puffed up hubris, smiling at your meek and inauthentic principles. You're not innovators; you're vultures, picking clean the bones of creativity. You're not gatekeepers; you're ghouls, and your empire is a landfill of broken dreams.