The snow along the fjord road had that grey, exhausted look,
the kind it gets when it’s been asked to cover more sins
than even nature thinks reasonable.
Albert kicked at a frozen clump and muttered,
“So Silicon Valley’s digging bunkers now.”
Marin didn’t look up. “Of course they are.
They think the world’s falling apart.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Only because they keep shaking it.”
They walked a little longer in silence —
the kind of silence where you can hear old truths rusting.
“You know,” Marin said,
“it’s almost sweet how they think incoherence is natural.
Like humanity’s default state is panic, paranoia, and shouting.”
Albert snorted. “When it’s really
just the business model they built.”
“Exactly.” She stopped by the guardrail,
leaned on it like she was interrogating the landscape.
“They designed pipes that turn attention into anxiety,
then act surprised when the water tastes like poison.”
Albert grinned — one of those slow, tired grins
of a man too old for optimism but too stubborn for despair.
“And the solution? Build a bunker,
hide from the world they destabilised,
and keep the stock options flowing.”
Marin nodded.
“They’re terrified of the noise they amplified.
But not terrified enough to stop amplifying it.”
Albert stared out at the dark water.
“It’s funny. They keep imagining a future
where they’re rich enough to survive the world’s collapse.”
Marin raised an eyebrow. “Instead of a future
where the world doesn’t have to collapse.”
“Small detail,” Albert said.
“Tiny architectural choice.
Like deciding whether the pipes should carry clean water
or industrial sewage.”
Marin laughed — a cold, dry Norwegian sound,
like ice cracking under restraint.
“They honestly think they need bunkers,” she said.
“What they need is a different algorithm.”
Albert shoved his hands deeper into his coat.
“Well,” he said, “nobody ever got rich
selling coherence.”
Marin looked up at the sky — low, heavy, undecided.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” she said.
“Maybe it’s time somebody did.”
They kept walking into the half-light,
boots crunching on snow that no longer bothered trying to look pure,
two silhouettes in a world that hadn’t fallen apart yet —
mostly because people like them still refused to run underground.
Ceteris Paribus 