Innis

The men who ran it thought they owned the archive. Every word spoken in the digital commons passing through one building, monitored, searchable, reversible by whoever held the keys that week. That is the most Babel thing you can imagine. Not a platform. A tower. A single point through which all of it had to pass, where all of it could be seen and named and if necessary taken back. They owned nothing but a chokepoint and the belief that the record of human speech belonged in their building. The belief was the whole of the error.