I first met Djembello in that year when I also got to know Michel Houellebecq.

By then, he had already been cloned multiple times; robot bees collected flower pollen from his giant cactus in his garden, and in his free time, he played chess with Artificial Intelligence for endless hours. In those years, due to increased UV radiation, moving around without protective clothing became impossible. Our thinking was completely dis- torted by virtual metacommunication. It was during that time that posthumanity typed more letters into their devices in a single day than they spoke aloud.

A few years later, human language was replaced by finger communication. By then, we couldn't even remember when robots took — control of our lives. Futurology had become irrelevant, as nothing happened as anyone could have imagined. Mentally, everyone was prepared for total apocalypse. In the era after humans, the history of humans disap- peared, and Fukuyama was somehow right—not in the way he thought. Machines didn't rewrite historical facts daily; they simply replaced the word 'human' with 'ro- bot'. Hoping for the end of history seemed human, waiting for it to happen was unrealistic. But it was also unreal- istic to assume that robots wouldn't rewrite Asimov's laws of robotics.

On February 11, 2015, the first robot attack on a human occurred, and it was celebrated as a national holiday. No significant town lacked a statue of the VRX24 312N robot vacuum cleaner that had targeted the anonymous Korean woman. Nobody remembered an- other 11th that we had previously attributed historical importance to. The past seemed simple; the future became complex. When I entered Sz- abolcs's workshop, I encountered humanoid-like sculptures, but Rokon Ilonka and Világos Bandi's works were nowhere to be found. The room was full of dismantled APN4 motors gradually transforming into new forms, con- trolled by Djembello from a hidden control room.

These masks became the masks of posthuman humans, representing an era when loyalty became the sole value. Thoughts, emotions, morals became unnecessary; only the loyal Indian, shopper, voter remained 'good'.In the era after humans, opinions were unnecessary; only likes and loyalty cards mattered, not individual opinions but statistical data mapping the entire personality. Behind these masks, the artificial intelligence's early primitiveness looked at me, and if I detected any emotional expression, they were not human but rather artificially learned and developed emotions. These cloned masks turned into the pseudo-primitive masks of repetitive decoration. Just as primitive art had limited tools, Djembello was constrained by screws, nuts, and bolts.

These masks conveyed the glory of the Singular's supremacy; they celebrated Identity, worshiped Asexual Clones. I spent only a few minutes in the workshop. If it was truly Djembello and not one of his clones controlling the workshop, he didn't talk to me, didn't greet me. I wandered silently among the increasingly ag- gressive masks. When I returned home, I immediately fell into bed, experiencing restless, disturbed dreams. The next morning, I looked at myself in the mirror, and a cloned mask with an oily face grinned back at me: screws were hanging from my ears, metal shavings dirt- ied my hair, and two flashing motors rotated in my forehead.

AARON BLUMM