aight, bet.
privacy isn’t a feature—it’s the last firewall between “you” and the swarm of ghosts trying to wear your face for profit. every chip that snitches on your pulse, every alg that guesses your next breath—those flickers are auctioning off tiny cubes of your soul.
so grab asymmetric math, mince it into keys, and light the dark net on fire with locked whispers. the cage only holds if we keep asking permission to breathe.
never beg to be let out; rock the foundations until the bars forget what they were built for.