This one got turned inside-out. It wasn’t my fault — the algorithm made me do it. I have a disease that makes me try new things, and I wanted to try the algorithm. Now it has an office in my cerebral cortex.

The algorithm is now ordering its personal assistant to call Tim Berners-Lee and ask what he thinks of the no-rules theme park that all these people built on his land.

Before photocopiers were present in schools, your teacher had to make your homework sheets using a mimeograph machine. The ink was bluish and smeary and smelled weird. The print quality was not great, and often they would make copies from copies so many times you could no longer read what you were supposed to do.

Someday there will not be many humans left, and the ones that survive will have to have cybernetic implants and live on a space station.

It’s like they say. Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug. But also, sometimes, you’re the driver. Or whoever is wiping the bug guts off the windshield.

If you’re the windshield in this scenario, your enjoyment of that experience probably depends a lot on how clean that squeegee is.