In which Bernstein, Eno, Reich, Sakamoto, DeMarinis, and Orwell fail to grasp the most important question (then again, it's not like we here on the ground have been any wiser these last fifty years or so).

There is the technology, yes, but who controls it? Who controls our expression, and the conversations we have about expression?

Prometheus was given fire by the gods. The human gods who give us our technologies leave much to be desired.

Who are we but what we are able to express — in language or in music? Who shapes and contours how we express ourselves?

How can we make sense of strange new feelings?

Who is in control of our nostalgia for the future?

Who?