Come friend, and let us now retrace the footsteps of the laurel wreathed Florentine that good Virgil guided once before, and enter into that Hell writ large on the canvas of modernity: that Hell broadcast, wi-fi’d, and fibre-to-the-premises’d into the homes and pockets of us all, thence to be refracted through scrying mirrors sigil’d with the forbidden apple. It is from those obsidian screens that very Hades doth then stream relentlessly into many lost souls, burning not with fire but with narrative, borne on by the wings of the Prince of the Air. So let us now ascend and descend; whirl, and swirl; oscillate and vacillate; through truths and untruths; dialectics and kayfabes; influencers and assets: And hope, that like the Tuscan and the Roman long ago, we too shall escape those wretched Infernal cloisters. And there, on the other side of Paradise, at last find our salvation and rest eternal, in dearest Truth.