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Someday something will feast off the roughage of our crotches. And all the walls covered in notes behind it like a set for a conspiracy film, the mad attempts at extracting some actionable knowledge from it. As it's said, Conspiracists, like fetishists, like theists, find comfort in the underlying belief that someone is in control, at least someone is pulling the strings that manipulates the world that would otherwise feel so painfully arbitrary. We attempt to make sense, our Hominid brains are excellent at seeing patterns. We extract meaning from nothing. We become paranoid of a silent informed minority. Attempt to read the subtext in everything. Like art.
