Afterglow Hotline is what answers when the rave doesn’t love you back. A detached house groove hums politely while your dignity holds for customer support. The voice says it’s listening. It isn’t. You press 8 to speak to a shaman. You get looped. This isn’t healing—it’s the part where you realize the lasers were never for you.

Chopped fragments of memory flicker through bass fog and reverb—last night’s spiritual awakening, now sponsored and mildly irradiated. You aren’t dancing anymore. You’re buffering. “Afterglow Hotline” doesn’t end. It places you in the queue behind everyone else who thought the glowstick meant something.