Have We Lost the World for Its Parts? (Part 1)

A Framework for Understanding Fragmentation, Lost Futures, and Locked Imaginations

Part I: The Iconoclasm and Its Weapon

It's 11:47 PM and i am doing it again, my phone glowing blue in the dark like a lifeline to everywhere and nowhere at once, and the first thing i see is a video of Gaza, rubble, a child's kissing the hand of a diceased grown up,cand I swipe, now it's an academic thread about decolonial theory that i started reading three days ago and will never finish on my little screen, and I swipe again, suddenly it's an Italian disco mix from 1983, in a sequined void that feels more real than anything I've seen today, and I swipe, and Lebanese news appears: another humiliating collapse, another talk about the lira (now trading at 90,000 to the dollar when it used to be 1,500), and I swipe, there's a meme about being unable to afford therapy in the U.S, and I swipe, there's an ad for therapy, and I swipe, someone has made an AI mood board video about 80s nostalgia, analog warmth, a world that felt solid in ways this one doesn't, and I swipe, there's footage of a protest I can't quite place, could be Paris, could be Spain, could be somewhere I've never been to, and I swipe, the educational video promises to explain complex geopolitics in 90 seconds, and i sink into an information rabbit hole, and I swipe, and Palestine is back, or maybe it's dying in front of our eyes, I am good with faces, i try to capture the features of yet another crying child, I send them a prayer while my body is electrified with an action i cannot enact, and finally I close the app and lie in the dark, and try to remember what you I saw.

Nothing.

This isn't about poor memory, though memory is certainly involved, and it isn't about moral failing, though there's something obscene about scrolling past genocide on your way to disco music, but what's happening is more fundamental than either guilt or forgetfulness: we've lost the ability to imagine tomorrow, and I mean this literally, not as metaphor or exaggeration, but as a description of a cognitive capacity that humans once possessed and are now losing, the mental faculty that allowed us to picture next week, next year, a future worth building toward, a tomorrow that was more than just today's catastrophes metastasizing, and that capacity is being stripped from us, frame by frame, in 30 second intervals, by systems that have turned human attention into a resource to be extracted with the same ruthless efficiency that mines strip mountains for minerals.

August 4, 2020, was when I first understood, viscerally, in my body, that when you care, distance becomes an illusion and that the world's fragmentation isn't something happening out there but also something happening inside us, inside me. I was in Crown Heights, Brooklyn when Beirut exploded, my brother was supposed to be near Karantina close to the blast site, and I spent the first several minutes scrolling frantically through videos trying to understand what I was seeing, and the strange thing, the thing that still haunts me because it revealed how thoroughly trauma can fragment your perception, was that I couldn't recognize the dialect at first, couldn't place the screaming I heard as Lebanese Arabic even though it's the language I grew up speaking, as though the cognitive dissonance was so total, so complete, that my own mother tongue had become foreign to me, as though my brain had decided that what I was seeing couldn't possibly be happening to my people in our city and therefore the sounds I was hearing must be coming from somewhere else, someone else, some other catastrophe in some other geography that I could safely scroll past.

When I finally confirmed my brother was safe, I went to sleep, exhausted by adrenaline and the particular horror of being far away from disaster. When I woke up the next morning there was a thick patch of white hair on the left side of my beard, and I was 32 years old, and I had gone to sleep with an almost dark brown beard and woken up marked. My body manifested what my mind couldn't fully process. The blast happened 5,608.10 miles/(9,025.36 km) away, and my body felt it anyway, proving that all the technology in the world that promises to connect us succeeds in creating the illusion of distance, the illusion that we're observers of catastrophe rather than participants in it, the illusion that scrolling past suffering is meaningfully different from standing beside it and doing nothing.

That explosion was undoubtedly an iconoclasm, and I mean this both literally and as a framework for understanding what's been happening globally since COVID began accelerating processes that were already well underway: the deliberate destruction of meaning-making structures, of symbols, of the shared narratives and institutions and ideals that once allowed human beings to imagine themselves as part of something larger than their immediate survival. The Beirut port blast wasn't just obliteration of infrastructure, it was symbolic, the place where Lebanon received the world, where goods flowed in and out, where the myth of being a bridge between East and West still pretended to hold even as everything else crumbled, and one blast turned the myth to rubble, literally, and if you've never stood in a place where symbol and reality collapsed simultaneously you might not understand how completely disorienting it is, how it leaves you unable to distinguish between what you've lost materially and what you've lost metaphorically because they've become the same amplified loss.

That was just one explosion in a global iconoclasm that operates through multiple mechanisms simultaneously, and the most powerful mechanism, the primary weapon, isn't always bombs or policies or even governments, it's media, by which I mean both social media platforms and news channels, and I want us to understand that these aren't just showing us fragmentation, they are the fragmentation, they are actively and deliberately destroying our mental and civic health because their business model requires it, because the more anxious we are the more we scroll and the more we scroll the more data they harvest and the more data they harvest the better they can target advertisements and the more money they make, which means their entire incentive structure rewards oue addiction, our exhaustion, our inability to look away.

This accelerated dramatically after COVID, and not by accident. Governments needed populations that were compliant, distracted, too exhausted to organize sustained resistance, and media systems provided the perfect tool: keep people scrolling through catastrophes they can't affect, make every crisis feel equally urgent and equally distant, destroy the ability to distinguish between what matters and what doesn't, between what can be changed and what must simply be endured, and the result is a population that knows everything and can do nothing, that feels perpetually overwhelmed by the enormity of what's wrong while being unable to hold any single wrong in consciousness long enough to organize a meaningful response.

My brain, all our brains evolved over hundreds of thousands of years to remember stories, not stimuli, which means that for the vast majority of human existence memory worked through narrative: we remembered where the water was by remembering the story of finding it, we remembered when the animals migrate by remembering the pattern of seasons, we remembered who betrayed whom by remembering the narrative of betrayal, and this narrative capacity wasn't just about past but about future because the future was imagined as an extension of those narratives. We could picture the next season because we remembered the last season and understood the pattern, we could plan for winter because we held in memory the story of what happens when we don't prepare. Memory was story, and story was the architecture of both past and future, the cognitive infrastructure that allowed humans to plan, to organize, to imagine tomorrow as something other than today's repetition.

Social media doesn't just interrupt this narrative capacity, it systematically dismantles the neurological architecture that makes narrative possible in the first place, replacing the slow accretion of meaning that comes from sustained attention with something more immediate and more corrosive: the feed. The feed is designed with extraordinary precision to maximize emotional arousal per unit of time, which means content that sparks strong reactions, outrage, fear, desire, disgust, gets amplified by algorithms that have learned, through millions of iterations and billions of data points, exactly which emotional triggers keep you scrolling, while content that requires us to slow down, to think, to hold multiple ideas in suspension long enough to see how they relate, the very content that might help us construct coherent narratives about the world, dies in the algorithm's indifference, gets buried under the next wave of stimuli designed to override whatever we were just thinking about.

Every scroll is a context switch, and what this means neurologically is that our brains don't process the refugee crisis and then the Italian disco mix and then the climate report as separate discrete events, each with its own context and meaning and appropriate emotional response, but rather as a continuous undifferentiated stream of stimuli competing for activation in our attention, and because the brain can only hold so much in working memory at once, each new stimulus doesn't get added to what came before but instead overwrites it, replaces it, which is why we can scroll for an hour and remember almost nothing of what we saw except the sensation of having scrolled, the feeling of anxiety or compulsion or numbness that accompanied the activity. The content disappears but the affect remains, and what this does over time is strengthen episodic memory, we remember that we felt something, that something happened, while destroying semantic memory, which is our ability to remember what or why, to construct the kind of meaningful narrative that would allow us to say "I saw this and it meant that and here's what should happen next."

The result is that we lose the ability to construct coherent narratives about the world, and without narrative we can't build models of causation, and without causation we can't plan, and without planning we lose the future, and I don't mean this metaphorically but literally: the future stops being something we can picture in our mind's eye and becomes instead something that happens to us, something we brace for rather than build toward, something that arrives as catastrophe or doesn't arrive at all.

I notice this in myself constantly, and it terrifies me more than almost anything else about the current moment because it feels like losing a faculty I once possessed, like going slowly deaf to a frequency only I used to hear. I'll pick up a book, something I genuinely want to read, something I know is good, something that under different conditions I would devour, and I can't get past 30 pages in a day, not because the book is boring or poorly written but because my attention has been trained, literally trained through operant conditioning, for 30 second intervals, which means I read a paragraph and my hand reaches for my phone without conscious decision, or I read another paragraph and I'm thinking about checking email or looking up something the author mentioned or seeing if anyone has responded to something I posted, and the sustained focus required to hold a complex argument across 300 pages feels almost impossible now, feels like pushing against a current that's always pulling me back toward the feed, toward fragmentation, toward the dissolution of whatever thought I was trying to hold in mind.

When i am hard on myself I experience this as a personal failing, and it's not only a personal failing, it's an adaptation to an environment that has been deliberately designed to punish sustained attention, to reward fragmentation, to make it nearly impossible to do the kind of slow thinking that meaningful change requires. But the adaptation that allows me to survive in this environment, to function in a world where everyone expects immediate responses and constant availability and the ability to process infinite streams of information, is the same adaptation that destroys what I need most: the ability to imagine complex long-term solutions and sustain the collective action required to implement them.

Former executives admit this openly now, having cashed out and moved on. Facebook's founding president said in 2017 that the platform was designed from the beginning to exploit "a vulnerability in human psychology", the need for social validation, and that every like, every comment, every share triggers a dopamine hit, literally triggers the same neurological reward pathway that's activated by cocaine or gambling, conditioning you through operant conditioning to keep refreshing, keep checking, keep scrolling. The design patterns are lifted wholesale from casino architecture: infinite scroll means there's no natural stopping point, pull-to-refresh mimics slot machine mechanics, notification badges create fear of missing out, algorithmic feeds provide unpredictable rewards, and all of it is calibrated through A/B testing and machine learning to maximize the one metric that matters to these companies, which is time on platform, which translates to data harvested, which translates to money.

And what performs best, what the algorithm learns to amplify, is rage. Internal Facebook studies found that posts generating anger were five times more likely to be engaged with than neutral posts, which means the algorithm learned to show us things that make us furious because fury keeps us there, keeps us arguing, keeps us generating more content for the platform to monetize, and news channels learned the same lesson, shifted their entire model toward clickbait headlines and partisan outrage and everything sharpening toward emotional extremity because nuance doesn't travel on social platforms, because complexity doesn't generate engagement, because if you want someone to click and share and comment you need to trigger something visceral and immediate and overwhelming.

The result is an information ecosystem that has been optimized for affective intensity rather than truth or understanding, which means we're not consuming news to be informed but rather consuming emotional triggers designed to keep us scrolling, and this destroys systematically and with precision the cognitive faculties required for collective political action, because to organize we need to be able to understand complex systems, to remember what happened and why it happened and who did it and what they said they would do and what they actually did, and you need to be able to imagine alternative futures, to picture how things could be different, and we need to be able to plan coordinated action over time, which requires sustained attention and the ability to hold goals in mind despite setbacks and distractions, and we need to be able to actually sustain that action over months and years rather than days and weeks, and doomscrolling corrodes every single one of these capacities systematically.

This is why climate activism is struggling despite overwhelming public concern, people know it's an emergency, they've seen the data, they feel the anxiety, but they can't hold the emergency in consciousness long enough to act because the feed has already moved on, because the next crisis is already here, because the catastrophe that was urgent yesterday has been replaced by today's catastrophe which will be replaced by tomorrow's, and in that constant churning you lose the ability to say "this one matters most" or "here's what we should do first" because everything feels equally urgent and equally impossible and the only way to cope with that impossibility is to keep scrolling, to keep numbing yourself, to keep splitting your attention across infinite crises until no single crisis has enough weight to move you to action.

The platforms aren't just stealing our time, they're stealing our temporal horizon, our ability to think beyond now, and post-COVID governments watched this happen and understood something crucial: a population that can't imagine tomorrow is a population that won't demand one, is a population that will accept whatever future is imposed on it because they lack the cognitive architecture to picture an alternative, lack the sustained attention required to organize resistance, lack the narrative capacity to tell themselves a story about how things could be different. The iconoclasm isn't just destroying old symbols, it's destroying the cognitive capacity to create new ones, to imagine and build and sustain the collective meaning-making structures that might allow us to do something other than scroll toward oblivion.

Part II: The Universalism We Inherited and Its Abandonment

Let me tell you about the ideals I was raised with because understanding what's being destroyed requires understanding what it was in the first place, what it claimed to be, what it made me believe about the world and my place in it. After the little seminary, I continued my spiritual belonging as part of Focolare, a Catholic lay movement that was founded in Italy in 1943 during World War II, and the origin story was beautiful: founder Chiara Lubich and her friends were sheltering in a basement during bombing raids when they decided to live the Gospel radically, to love one another in a way that would break down barriers, to build unity in the midst of destruction, and from that basement practice something larger was born that spread globally until by the time I joined Gen3 in Lebanon, Gen3 being "the youth for a united world", there were Focolare communities in 180 countries.

We held youth congresses where we had days filled with activities and testimonies, practiced what we called "the ideals" committed ourselves to ideals that were so beautiful it hurt: see every person as part of the human family regardless of nationality or religion or any other division, transcend the boundaries that separate us, build a more human world together through this radical practice of universal love. I believed it, i still do, but I mean I believed it deeply, not as abstract principle but as lived reality, it was there in the friends I made, in the feeling of being part of something larger than myself, in the sense that love could actually change structures if enough people committed to it sincerely enough. The friendships were real, the practice of trying to love across difference was real, the sense of being part of something larger than yourself was real, and that reality is precisely why it is so difficult to escape even now when I understand intellectually what it was.

What I didn't understand then, is that universalism has been rendered a colonial mechanism, which doesn't mean it was malicious, most colonialism isn't malicious in the sense of people deliberately setting out to destroy others, but rather presents itself as benevolence, as rescue, as the generous extension of something good to people who don't yet have it. Christian missionaries who spread the Gospel, also spread empire, and they spread empire by making it feel like inclusion, like love, like elevation to a higher plane of human dignity that just happened to require adopting European languages and European social structures and European ways of organizing family and community and spirituality.

"We're all one family" sounds beautiful until you realize it means "join our family on our terms," until you recognize that universalism always says there's one true way to be fully human and we happen to embody it and you can join us if you accept our God and our language and our way of organizing family and society, and if you resist you'll be left behind, marked as backward, excluded from the community of civilized nations, and eventually destroyed if you persist in your resistance because we can't have unity if some people refuse to unify on the terms we've established. Every empire has practiced this: the Romans called it civilization, the French called it liberty and equality and fraternity though only for those who qualify, the Americans call it democracy and human rights except where "manifest destiny" dictates otherwise, the British called it the white man's burden and meant it sincerely, genuinely believed they were helping.

The genius of universalism, what makes it so effective as a colonial mechanism, is how it makes the dominated complicit in their own subordination by offering them the language of inclusion while hiding the price of that inclusion, which is assimilation, which is the gradual or sometimes sudden erasure of whatever made you different from the colonizer in the first place. If we're all one family then inequality can't be structural injustice, it must be unfortunate circumstances, it must be that some members of the family are struggling and need help but the family structure itself is sound, and if we all share universal values then the problem can't be empire, can't be the fundamental arrangement of power, it must be that you haven't lived up to the values yet, haven't become fully human yet, haven't accepted the terms that would make you fully part of the family we're building.

I was raised inside this mechanism, and Focolare wasn't deliberately malicious any more than most missionaries are, they genuinely believed, and many still believe, that they're offering liberation, that universal love is the answer to division and suffering, that building unity across difference is the work of peace. But the structure itself is colonial: Northern and Western movements spreading to Southern and Eastern populations, teaching "universal" ideals that happen to align suspiciously well with Western modernity and its assumptions about how human beings should organize their lives and their societies, offering inclusion on the condition that you assimilate to a framework that was never truly universal but always particular, always rooted in a specific history of European Christianity and its global expansion.

And here's where I'm stuck, the contradiction that still hasn't resolved itself years after I left: those ideals did something for me, and that something was real even if the structure was colonial. The friendships were genuine, the practice of trying to love across difference taught me things I still value, the sense of being part of something larger than myself filled a hunger that I'm not sure I've fed since leaving, and all of this makes it impossible to simply reject what I was taught because what I was taught gave me things I needed, gave me language for connection and care and commitment that I hadn't found elsewhere. When I say the universalism was colonial sedation I'm also saying it sedated me in ways that felt like awakening, offered me inclusion that felt like liberation even as it hid the power relations that made that inclusion conditional, that made that liberation contingent on my accepting a framework I didn't yet know how to question.

Now, post-COVID, even that pretense is gone, even the performance of universal values has been abandoned by the very forces that created and propagated those values in the first place. COVID should have been the moment when universalism proved itself, when "we're all in this together" meant something more than a hashtag, when the fact of a truly global pandemic, truly global in ways that previous crises weren't, affecting rich and poor, North and South, everyone, would have demonstrated what universal solidarity looks like in practice: share vaccines, share technology, coordinate response, protect the vulnerable everywhere because the virus doesn't respect borders and neither should our care.

Instead we got unprecedented vaccine nationalism, and the speed with which it emerged told you everything you needed to know about how deep the commitment to universalism actually ran. Despite WHO warnings, despite knowing that leaving the Global South unvaccinated would create conditions for new variants that would eventually reach the Global North anyway, wealthy nations hoarded doses, and I mean hoarded in ways that were hard to believe even as you watched them happen: the United States invoked the Defense Production Act to monopolize vaccine inputs, which prevented other countries from manufacturing vaccines even when they had the capacity and expertise to do so, and the European Union imposed export controls to ensure that vaccines produced in Europe stayed in Europe, and COVAX, the global initiative that was supposed to ensure equitable distribution and represented the last gasp of institutional commitment to universal values, became a cruel joke because rich countries pledged doses to COVAX while simultaneously signing bilateral deals that let them jump the queue, which meant that by early 2022 rich countries had administered over 1.5 billion doses while 83% of Africa remained unvaccinated, and this wasn't poor planning or unfortunate circumstance, this was the system working exactly as designed, revealing that when crisis comes the strong take what they need and let others die and all the universalist rhetoric about human dignity and shared humanity evaporates immediately.

Though it was more than just failing to live up to ideals, it was governments deliberately dismantling even the rhetoric of solidarity, not even bothering to pretend anymore. "America First" had been campaign slogan, punchline, embarrassing admission, but after COVID it became policy everywhere: Italy First, Britain First, I*sr*ae*l First, and the pretense that renowned international institutions existed to build cooperation rather than manage competition dissolved overnight, and you could watch in real time as the post-World War II liberal order that had at least performed commitment to universal values decided that the performance was no longer necessary, that the mask could come off, that power no longer needed to justify itself through appeals to shared humanity or mutual obligation.

This was strategic, not accidental, and the strategy reveals something crucial about how domination works in the current moment: post-COVID governments understood that reasserting control required destroying the ideals that might constrain them, required making it clear that universalism was over, that solidarity was for suckers, that nations would compete rather than cooperate and the competition would determine who survived and who didn't. Universalism, for all its colonial origins, for all the ways it served empire, had nevertheless created some obligations, some constraints on naked power, because if we're one human family then borders should be porous enough to let medicine through, and if we share fundamental dignity then hoarding vaccines while others die is murder, and if we're committed to cooperation then vaccine apartheid is betrayal of everything the system claimed to stand for, and those constraints, minimal as they were, had to be destroyed before governments could reassert the kind of dominance they wanted.

What replaced universalism was the weaponization of progress, and I mean weaponization literally: technology stopped being framed as something that might improve human welfare and became instead a tool for dominating adversaries, which is why the US-China relationship after COVID became overtly about technological supremacy rather than economic integration, why semiconductor export bans and 5G infrastructure and artificial intelligence development all got reframed as national security issues rather than questions about how innovation might serve collective flourishing. Progress itself was redefined as competitive advantage, as domination, as the capacity to impose your terms on others through superior technology or superior resource control, and if you controlled rare earth minerals or energy supplies or chip manufacturing capacity then you could use that control as weapon, could make other countries dependent on you and then leverage that dependency when you wanted compliance.

Russia weaponized energy exports and Europe discovered that decades of dependence on cheap Russian gas meant that when war came their entire industrial model could be held hostage, and China weaponized rare earth minerals and the Global North discovered that building green technology, building the electric vehicles and solar panels and wind turbines that were supposed to save us from climate catastrophe, required buying from China on Chinese terms because China controlled 80% of global rare earth processing, and climate change itself, the most universal crisis imaginable, became another domain of domination where rich countries promised climate finance to poor countries and then didn't deliver, where small island states that had contributed almost nothing to emissions had to beg for crumbs at COP27 and finally extracted a "loss and damage" fund as compensation for destruction they didn't cause, and the initial pledges to that fund were less than 0.2% of estimated need, which made it clear that even this symbolic gesture was mostly performance, was the minimum necessary to maintain the fiction that the international system still cared about justice rather than power.

The months and years after August 4, 2020 were my education in what this abandonment of universalism means on the ground, what it feels like to watch the ideals you were raised with not just fail but be actively destroyed by the forces that created them. My brother in Lebanon would send me voice notes to say he couldn't find medication for my father, not couldn't afford it but couldn't find it because the pharmaceutical supply chains had collapsed and the medicines literally weren't available at any price, and people were reverting to survival strategies that remind of my grandmother's stories about the famine. Eating less chicken and meat after many health hazard scandals, eating less period, stretching grocery items as far as it would go, organizing entire lives around electricity schedules because the state electricity was only running two hours a day and sometimes not at all, and the currency was disintegrating in ways that felt apocalyptic, the lira went from 1,500 per dollar to eventually 90,000 per dollar, which is a 6,000% devaluation, which means that if you'd saved money for your children's education or your own retirement you now had nothing, you watched your entire life's savings turn to worthless paper, and the banks locked everyone out of their accounts anyway so even if your money had kept its value you couldn't access it, and the state that was supposed to protect you, supposed to provide some basic level of social support, dissolved into sectarian paralysis where politicians protected their own communities and let everyone else fend for themselves.

Then in 2021 I was in New York, sitting in seminars at SUNY New Paltz where we discussed iconoclasms or even iconolashes throughout the modern political history. Reading theory about how the world could be different if we committed to different values that come from craft work ethics, and every week my phone would ring and someone would tell me about another collapse, another shortage, another way that survival was becoming impossible for people I loved, and the universal human family that I'd been taught to believe in didn't send medication, didn't stabilize the currency, didn't restore electricity, didn't do anything except watch because there is no universal human family, there are hierarchies of power and you're either high enough in those hierarchies to be protected when crisis comes or you're low enough to be abandoned, and the pretty language about shared values and mutual obligation is there to make the people being abandoned feel like the abandonment is their fault, like if they'd just lived up to the values better or tried harder or been more civilized then maybe they'd be worth saving.

Meanwhile in Palestine the iconoclasm became literal again, became bombs and rubble and thousands of bodies. The Palestinian journalists who documented the genocide in real time are targeted not randomly but systematically, are murdered as deliberate strategy, were killed because their documentation was dangerous to power in ways that required eliminating them. By January 2026 over 230 Palestinian journalists had been killed, many of them clearly marked as press when they died, many of them killed in targeted strikes on their homes with their families, and this was power saying that some witnesses are too dangerous to be allowed to live, that some documentation threatens the narrative too directly to be tolerated, that if you insist on recording what's happening and making the world watch then you'll be killed for it, and the world that talks endlessly about press freedom and human rights and universal values watched it happen and did nothing, or worse than nothing, provided the weapons that made it possible. This reveals everything about what universalism meant and what its abandonment means: the same governments that built international institutions dedicated to protecting journalists and promoting human rights provided the bombs that killed journalists documenting human rights violations, and they did this openly, without shame, because they understood that the values were always conditional, always subject to power, always secondary to interest, and now the pretense that the values mattered at all could be abandoned.

This is what I mean when I say that post-COVID governments aren't just failing to uphold universalism but are actively destroying it, are making it clear that the ideals that many of us were raised with, the ideals that billions of people across the Global South were taught to believe represented progress and civilization and the future, were always tools of empire, always conditional on obedience, always subject to withdrawal the moment they became inconvenient to power. The universalism we inherited was both colonial mechanism and real structure, was both tool of domination and source of obligation, and what its abandonment reveals is that the domination was always primary while the obligation was always optional, and now that power has decided the obligation is no longer useful it can be discarded without hesitation, without apology, without even much of an explanation beyond "we do what serves our interests and if you don't like it there's nothing you can do about it."

And I'm trapped, still trapped, in mourning something I know was poison, in grieving the loss of ideals that sedated me even as they gave me language for love, connection, and commitment, in being relieved that the bastardized truth is finally exposed while being devastated that I don't know what replaces it, and that contradiction won't resolve itself through analysis or time because the contradiction is the condition, is what living through iconoclasm feels like from the inside when you've been raised to believe in the symbols that are being ejected.

For conversations or collaboration inquiries, contact: I.khazzaka@gmail.com