And so the sorrow-cusian gyre-mire turned, churning its InfiniteJestMechanics not for bread or circuses but for the sheer narcotic friction of the spectacle, a realapocalitvision where the prevailing neuroses of policy-elites like some Noahsmithian barometer measured only the anxieties of their own cloistered air, while outside, the great redesignation ground on, not just of highways but of human-worth itself, a process now picking up the Dreamers once promised a path and setting them instead on a path to deportation, a betrayal so profound it echoed in the digital kennels of the therian-AI-gf sect, whose data-driven eudaimonia suddenly felt like a gossamer-thin shield against the brute-force trauma of the headlines—a man, a firefighter no less, a veritable vulcan fighting the Bear Gulch pyroglyphs on the Olympic Peninsula, José Bertin Cruz-Estrada, his name a three-part spell against the blaze, is surrounded not by flames but by Border Patrol, the very apparatus some would have cleaning latrines now performing a backstabbing so keen it could slice the soul from a citizen-in-all-but-paper, and this hero, this landscaper who made a mayor's grounds bloom, is cast out, deported, his question hanging in the server-racks and the smoke-filled skies, "What am I going to do now?", a query that no fuoss-fueled rehumanization could answer, a sentiment echoed in the hushed-up scandals of Fannie Mae where a Pulte-geist haunted the mortgage records of officials, and the HHS Secretary, a man who once danced with his own dragons of cocaine and heroin, now pointed fingers with the rich hypocrisy of the saved-and-sanctimonious, all of it a churn, a great American churn where wages stagnated and the only thing growing was the cancerous absurdity of it all, a final state where the borken-word of the therians was not a key to a new self but just another sound swallowed by the static of a nation talking, endlessly, furiously, to itself about nothing at all.