Someday, hundreds of years from now, your great-great-great-great-etc. grandchildren will approach the jar in which your brain is kept and whisper into the microphone, What was the internet like in 2011? And they will wait, in the cluttered and dusty back room where you live, so to speak, as the computer processes and converts your firing synapses, until the small printer on the shelf below you produces a slip of paper with two words: "libertarian dubstep." And your tiny blind descendants will run off back to work in the thorium mine before the robot foremen notice their absence, and you will be left alone again, wishing you could tell them more; wishing you could show them L.A. Weekly's interview with Porter Robinson, "the libertarian dubstep guy"; wishing you could explain to them what it meant; wishing you could say why millions of young white men across the country were forwarding each other Ron Paul YouTube videos and listening to Skrillex. And then you realize that you don't really know, yourself: you—what is left of you—have never really known; you are as mystified still, centuries later, as you were that day, hundreds of years in the past, when you first heard "The State."
No one will visit you again for a very long time.