The other problem with killswitching is the craving of what was suddenly killed. Because nothing died. The light wasn’t allowed to dim, it was frantically snuffed. Which means sparks were still visible, even if we couldn’t see them. Burning. Illuminating pockets and crevices of life. In utero. A life that would be best forever wombed. Because, what if it couldn’t sustain?

So the killswitch can’t simply be depressed. It must be ripped from the wall, removed entirely from its former quarters, buried in the garden, buried deep under the hydrangea bushes, buried so deep that neither the garden snake, nor the other one, the patterned one, the one we don’t talk about, can get to that switch until it has completely decomposed, is no longer restless, millions of years from now. Surely.