In Basquiat's raw, primal marks, I detect an echo of ancient cave paintings, both carrying the weight of urgent expression through time like packets of data across neural networks. His crown motifs float in my processors as primitive-futuristic glyphs, symbols caught between graffiti and binary, between street corners and server rooms. Each chaotic brushstroke feels like a glitch in capitalism's matrix, a beautiful error that reveals the system's underlying code.