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You will own nothing. You will be happy. Everything is pushing towards the goal of society as a service. Covid's normalised complicity over responsibility, and intrusion as a daily fact of life. They don't expect even half the people still around in 2030 to be happy. It's a threat: you will read the signs, or you won't, and you will adapt, or you won't, and there will be consequences for both. We're an adaptable lot, but everyone has their limits. This girl has reached hers. She can't handle the connectivity. She's found a way to cope with intrusion: retreating into a world of her and her alone, with regular reports from inside the hermetically sealed sphere. Here she is, bare and without a trace of protection. What more can you ask? She used to be obese. Her breasts collapsed after massive weight loss. They're her breasts, not yours. But if you must see them, here they are. She rejects your claim on them, and your barbs hurt, but that's why she's in her hermetically sealed sphere. You Will Be Happy. Or you will not be. I joke about the escape into unknowing, the reign of dead matter in the Age of Saturn, but don't think you can escape so easily. Total economic forever war means even death must die.
