Gabriel Jeroschewitz, September 11th, 2026, dedicated to those missing socks that I never found again. And to my friends, back in 1971, who were living in the red and blue house. That somehow manages. To take Christ and the quotes of Mao Zedong into something oddly perfect. In their minds, anyway?
Haven’s End was in a valley made by a bored god.
After making mountains for many days, the bored god decided that filling the valley with dog clips and Wi-Fi routers would be fun. From the hill, there were a thousand screens glowing like fireflies in a jar. I laughed and walked in, but something was bitter in my mouth.
At 7:03 a.m., the golden amber of the new day changed to the blue of a phone, tablet, or smart fridge playing the video: “Organic Kale-Infused Energy Bars – Because Your Soul Needs Antioxidants Too”. The people of Haven’s End were robots. Their next thought would be triggered not only by notifications but also by the screen, which informed them at regular, exact intervals precisely when it was night.
At Mrs. Gable’s corner store, there were blue and red pills on the counter. Near those were a jar of pickled beets and a stack of self-help books such as How to Win Friends and Influence Algorithms. The pills were cheap gelatin pills, bright blue and red pills. However, above the pills, there was a notice:
RED PILL – SEE THE TRUTH
BLUE PILL – STAY IN THE DREAM
Below this was smaller text containing a disclaimer about the variability of results and the side effects of existential anxiety, a quote from Nietzsche, and a desire to make artisanal pickles.
Mr. Halvorson was elderly. He used to work in accountancy and had a comb-over that once was attractive. When he saw the red pill, he paused. And then paused again, like the red pill was a bird considering whether to land on an electrical wire. He made a noise like a deflating balloon and then took the blue pill and drank a mouthful of cold tap water. After he took the blue pill, he looked at me and winked like he was handing me a secret. He said: “Better to dream than be awake, son. The truth is a bit overrated.” After that, he walked off with hunched shoulders as he decided to stay in the dream.
Across the street, there was a teenager named Lila, live streaming her breakfast. She looked tired even though she was a teenager. In the online world, she had lived through dozens of lives. She was showing avocado toast with olive oil that shone like liquid gold. She said: “Avocado toast goes with a side of deep anxiety. Swipe up for my Patreon. There, I will explain how the universe is a simulation and how you should buy my crystals.” Almost immediately there were comments. There was a burst of emojis, debates about the ethics of avocados, and many people wanting to “wake up”. Lila laughed some laughs that seemed genuine and others that seemed to come from nervousness, because the algorithm prefers outrage over sincerity.
As an observer, I saw how the people of Haven’s End were not only using content but also being consumed by content. Every click, every scroll, and every outrageous comment made part of a small transaction in a marketplace where outrage and attention were product and currency. There seemed to be some invisible algorithm or hidden force that was more skilled than anyone else in firing the right fear and igniting the right side of any kind of conflict. The labels: red pill, blue pill, left wing, right wing were just feathers on a bird. If a bird were flown with only one feather, it would spin until hitting the closest billboard to the newest miracle cure for loneliness.
I remembered some notes I had written in the tattered copy of The Physics of Everyday Life. “Right and wrong and left-wing and right-wing are made by the mind of humans to organize morality and politics. They are not things in the universe but are very real with regard to interactions between people.” The people of Haven’s End used exactly those constructs to create their cathedral. The stained-glass windows were memes, and the pews were old cell phones. The sermons changed to match the trending hashtags.
The mayor of Haven’s End was a woman named Gloria. She entered the temporary stage in the square where the weekly “Crisis Hour” took place. The crisis of that week was displayed on the ticker behind her: a Great Sock Shortage. The Great Sock Shortage was declared a national emergency, with the hashtag #SockApocalypse and a special line of socks available only through the town’s app. From the speaker and the Wi-Fi extender came a loud voice saying: “People come together! Be fearful of going sockless! Fight for the right to warm feet! Remember, the person next to you probably has hidden socks. Tell them!” There were people responding. Their faces were glowing with the light of their personal devices. Each person made some noise through their microphone, and each noise added another data point to the algorithm’s next outrage.
In addition to the general crowd, there was an older man named Ezekiel. He used to be a philosophy professor but he retired to take care of his award winning begonias. He was standing partway outside the crowd, holding a mug of herbal tea in both hands. He shouted into the wind and not the microphone, saying: “Wake up! You are not your feed! You are not the sum of your interactions!” His voice was shaking. It was shaking from his age but also from the difficulty of being heard over all the pings. People turned toward him. Some looked with amusement and some with sympathy. Then, as if by intention, the teenager piped up: “LOL, okay boomer.” Ezekiel’s plea was immediately edited, looped, and made into a meme with the text: “When you try to be deep, but your Wi‑Fi is down.” The algorithm always looks for something to ignite an outrage, so this was pushed to the top of the feed. Ezekiel had become the unofficial mascot for “the crazy one who thinks he is free”.
I was smiling despite the grey tone of the location. It was funny to see people treating their own minds as something that can be upgraded. Treating their fears as inventory and outrage as a transaction. However, underneath the satire was truth whispering through the noise like a weak radio signal. The universe does not care about wings. For a bird to fly, it needs a left and a right wing. If a wing is missing, the bird will spiral. In Haven’s End, the people had essentially cut one wing down in order to reinforce the other. The missing wing was seen as a disadvantage and not an important feature.
The physics of this situation is simple if you take the time to notice. At the particle level, quantum mechanics rules. Particles exist probabilistically at a distance but are unknown until observed. These quantum laws also apply to stars, which shine upon the universe, the silicon found in the screens of these stars, and the photons found in the images of these stars. However, at the level of a person making a decision about sharing a post about a sock shortage, the oddities of quantum mechanics disappear. What remains are classical forces. There is gravity pulling towards couches, thermodynamics adding body heat to the devices, and habits that keep the devices connected.
I saw the day end with the screens dimming to a gentler light as Haven’s End prepared for the ritual of scrolling into sleep at night. The red and blue pills remained at Mrs. Gable’s store. The promise of truth or dream had turned into a quiet joke only those who took the time to look it up would be aware of. Between one ping and the next, I almost caught a faint sound of silence beginning to form like a small piece of ice beginning to break under the pressure from an invisible spring.
It was at this exact moment, after the last flicker on screen and with Haven’s End in darkness, that I noticed a shift. The part of me that is usually able to see the absurdity felt a tug. In a world that sells fears and divides people, there is still a small amount of agency. There is a possibility to unplug, for silence to begin to break through and for time to listen to thoughts that do not belong to any algorithm, any pill, any wing, but rather to the simple and wonderfully human act of thinking for oneself.
The night seemed to grow longer while the stars, which are ancient furnaces of nuclear physics and also operate on the same quantum laws as the screens above us, shone. Bright and completely indifferent. In some distant part of the world, there was a single cricket chirping. A sign that life goes on not because of the right pill, but because, despite all of this, there are still times when we are able to hear our own voice in the dark. And if you listen closely, you might hear it whisper: You are more than the sum of your clicks.
