Decadence was never about vice. It was about fatigue: the moment when thinking for yourself starts to feel like bad taste, and someone else’s ready answer feels like elegance.
These are stories about people who handed a machine their thoughts and never noticed the loss. Nothing was taken. It was offered - politely, one paragraph at a time.
This is not a dystopia about machines. It is the testimony of someone who noticed how easy it has become to hand them his own will. Personal, because the author writes from inside it, not from above.