While performing this imperative process of historical preservation, some of the people suddenly found themselves in a river. Forces, some beyond their control, and others beyond their sight or comprehension, pulled them left and right, slowing and speeding up their descent as they drifted downstream. Dangerous rocks could be seen ahead. They realised that they were all, no matter how hard they tried, going to hit multiple rocks on their way down. Others, seemingly on the shore, laughed as they descended. Later, those in the river realised, there was no shore.

We can rule out the need for it to double as a tool, as this only confirms its practicality. And we can rule out the inclusion of an idea, because that's all art - and those ideas are by no means useful.

But how about the ability of the ideas within to reach the person who would benefit the most from them?

From industrial-era factories to the virtual megastructures of today, our 'progress' has always been fuelled by a drive for scale. The industrial revolution framed mass production and ever-expanding networks as the ultimate engines of modernity—only sacrificing a little artisanal quality and human intimacy along the way—and this same philosophy drove our digital platforms to capture millions of users, delivering a promise of connection that, in practice, just left us feeling alone in vapid, impersonal super-platforms that everyone used and nobody liked.

Although typically traced back to the 1937 novel Of Mice and Men, written by John Steinbeck, the "mice" in this phrase actually comes from the 18th century poem To a Mouse by Robert Burns. In the poem, Burns reflects on how a farmer’s plow has destroyed a mouse’s nest, despite the mouse’s best efforts to prepare for the winter.