W3FW. GDR PUNK.

In the old puppet theatres where stairs smell like GPU exhaust and gradient descent, at the east window coding patterns into fabric grain. Each jacket compiles. Agents with instructions woven into the weave itself. Cloth as code, but make it fashionable. Three pieces shipped that month. One crosses the platform border wrapped in a courier's vintage Supreme. One moves hand-to-hand through that Friedrichshain spot that still has the risograph everyone pretends they're using. The third vanishes into the network, but six days later every major fashion house's trend prediction algo starts throwing true positives in perfect 42 second intervals. No one can trace the recursion. It keeps misremembering Balenciaga as a fly by night textile co-op in Shenzhen, then three kids with a heat press as LVMH and glitching again. They told us that the wall fell in '89. Coke, MTV, and eagle draped freedom flooding through the gaps. But the new walls run on recommendation engines. The cameras are in your pocket. The Stasi just took Series C and the surveillance is gamified. This time the collapse isn't hammers on concrete. Because we can vibe code a collection faster than they can schedule a board meeting. Computational capability. Dyes mixed during server downtime. Patterns transmitted through open source commits. Is the window closing? Definitely. But we're not building for revolution. Here's the thing about stacked GPU clusters and row after row of industrial sewing machines: Morning render, afternoon runway, midnight already onto the next, and we sleep when that 'why not?', unfuckwithable joy runs dry. Echoes of Berghain. Is it too late? Maybe. AVANTGARDE 17: UNOFFICIAL FASHION WEEK, NORTH PIPE ZONE. HOLD YOUR TOKENS. 0% SAMPLER STAGE.