As I read on how the economy works, I sometimes pause to reflect: GDP does not differentiate where its growth comes from. Be it the bread made by a local baker that feeds people, or the production of Russian tanks used to kill, for GDP, growth is growth.

Here we are, spinning on a blue marble, in a universe too vast to fathom, yet we’re shackled to a system as old as time, dressed in new clothes. The same play, different actors. Economic slavery, my dear friends, isn’t a relic of history books; it’s the unspoken chapter of our modern saga, a silent symphony playing in the background of our bustling lives. Consider the rat race, that endless marathon we run, gasping for a breath of financial freedom, only to find the finish line ever-receding.

The neon sign flickered in sporadic bursts of electric color, casting its cynical promise across the cracked asphalt of the near-deserted street. “Privacy Sold Here,” it said, —as if privacy could be commodified, packaged, and distributed like so many cans of processed meat. But this was San Angeles, 2051. An urban sprawl that had metastasized across the scorched earth, swallowing town after town in a meshwork of cables, silicone, and carbon fiber.

The Ultimate Synthesis of our entire dystopia (and our only way out) Nothing missing, nothing left. Pure art without a word said…

Measuring Crap-To-Content ratio on a modern web. Third-party who?…