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         Moves to digitize love itself (in particular, romantic love, through curious 21st-century inventions like algorithmic matchmaking)
         reduce love from a liberating act of social responsibility to a highly choreographed and hypervisible performance defined by rules
         (for example, rules about when it is acceptable to tell somebody you love them, as if this should not be said as soon as it is true).
-        These sorts of restrictions begin to deny us the privilege of loving.
 
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         <br><br>
 
-        <b>So what do we do?</b> TK.
+        <b>So what do we do?</b> I'm not sure. I've had the privilege of loving a few people, especially during my undergraduate years. I always
+        made a point of practicing this love in the most present, most protective, most offline and finally most freeing way that I could. But I'm a
+        very private person by nature and something of a Luddite and I just can't imagine it any other way. I don't deny that digital tools can bring
+        love within easier reach; online spaces of belonging can be magical. I just can't help but think of every action in such a space as a
+        performance for some bigger eye, whether it's watching or not, whether it does or doesn't care.
+
+        <br><br>
+
+        I write this from San Francisco; it is summer 2024. Digital surveillance seems to abound here and the city voted for more of it just a
+        few months ago. Even so, I can't in good faith say something like "we should all use Tor!" — everyone deserves privacy, not just those who know
+        how to find it, and anyway the idea that the individual is responsible for finding it signals, I think, a profound lack of political imagination.
+        But right now, maybe protecting ourselves and our loved ones fiercely is all we've got.
 
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