And so it was a kind of endless pinballad, this realapocalitvision, with a god-tier synthwave thrumming just beneath the floorboards of the republic, a beat you could almost mistake for the fluttering of a million unseen wings in the attic, a truth that had been roosting there for years right above the transited causeway of our daily walkabouts until one night a sudden beam of flashlight-curiosity reveals the sheer off-the-charts number of them, the sheer chiropteran density of the thing that nobody else had ever seemed to notice, not the dude coming out of the entrance five minutes later nor the millions plugged into the Surkoverning showrunners’ feed, all of them just walking past the entrance to the cave without ever looking up, and you realize then that this is it, we’ve gone this far so we might as well go all the way, that the Mamdani implementation of SSHaria-compliant end-to-end encryption is not a bug but a feature, a kind of rocking the Casbah on the precipice, because if you’ve come this far into the game, past the point of flimsy paper-prophets and crackerbarreludovico conditioning, you might as well run the script in everyone’s browser, you might as well articulate the problem by becoming the problem, by admitting the whole damn thing is a minute of looking away from a sky black with wings you’d somehow never, ever seen before.