The Nomad is a series of stories, fascinations, encounters, observations, experiences, joy of the moments by me, Ulrike Reinhard – all around my travels. Stay tuned!
I spent the summer of 2014 in the Himlayas, to be more specific in Ladakh. I’d just returned from a peace pirlgrimage to Syria and I was ready for a break. Lenny, my dog, came with me. We settled in a quiet village called Nimmu, perched near the banks of the Indus River. We spent the entire summer up there — Ken River had grown far too hot to bear. In contrast, the mountains offered a perfect escape: warm, golden days under deep blue skies, and nights cool enough to pull up a blanket.
Writing has always been my way of making sense of things. When I can put something into words, it means I’ve started to untangle the knots. It slows me down, forces me to look more closely, and helps give shape to thoughts that might otherwise stay vague or overwhelming. In the process, patterns emerge. Contradictions reveal themselves. What feels chaotic begins to gain meaning. Writing turns emotion into insight, and experience into something I can understand, reflect on, and remember.
Over the past years, I’ve carried stories that felt important to tell. I wanted to write them down. I knew these majestic mountains were the right place to begin. A place to reflect — to try and understand more clearly. And so, between long walks with Lenny and motorbike rides across some of the world’s highest passes, the idea of 2084 began to take shape.
From Orwell to Now: Why 2084?
2084 – I remain fond of the title, even now, it is something I’m proud of. Obviously, it draws inspiration from George Orwell’s 1984. 1984 is a dystopian novel that explores life under a totalitarian regime where the state, led by the all-seeing Big Brother, controls every aspect of life, from language and thought to history and personal relationships. The story follows Winston Smith, a low-ranking member of the ruling Party in the superstate of Oceania, who quietly rebels against the oppressive system. It paints a grim picture of a world where truth is manipulated, surveillance is constant, and individuality is crushed. Over time, Winston’s attempt to resist – through love, memory, and thought – is systematically dismantled. By the end, the system does not collapse; instead, it proves terrifyingly resilient. The real collapse is internal: Winston is broken, reprogrammed to love Big Brother and to rat out Julia, his lover. The novel’s bleak conclusion serves as a warning – not of a system that fails, but of one so powerful and insidious that it prevents its collapse by destroying the very idea of resistance.
What Orwell ‘says’ to Winston: “But always – do not forget this, Winston – always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – for ever” is for me one of the most chilling lines from 1984, and it captures the essence of totalitarianism at its most brutal.
To me, it means that in a truly oppressive system, power isn’t just about control or obedience — it’s about domination for its own sake. The “boot” represents the state’s absolute authority, and the “human face” symbolizes the individual, their dignity, freedom, and humanity. By saying the boot will stamp on the face forever, Orwell is warning us that under such regimes, cruelty and suppression aren’t unfortunate side effects — they are the point. The goal is not simply to maintain order, but to crush resistance so completely that people lose even the will to rebel.
It’s not just a warning about authoritarian regimes of the past — it’s a timeless, grim caution about what the future could look like if we allow unchecked power, surveillance, propaganda, and fear to replace accountability, truth, and human rights.
I highlight this because of what’s unfolding in the U.S. right now. We’re witnessing, in real time and at a breathtaking pace, the consolidation of nearly unchecked power: the Presidency, the Senate, the House, and even the Supreme Court are all in Republican hands. Add surveillance – which might explain why so many tech moguls suddenly toe the line – and propaganda, best exemplified by a press briefing with Trump’s press secretary, Karoline Leavitt – and I don’t even need to single one out, they’re all pure propaganda, sometimes even outright lies. And then there’s fear – just listen to Senator Lisa Murkowski openly admit the climate of intimidation and political retribution hanging over lawmakers.
With 2084 I wanted to contrast Orwell’s dystopian vision with the opportunities of the present, suggesting that while the dangers of surveillance, concentration of power, and manipulation remain real, there is also a unique chance to build more inclusive, participatory, and democratic systems. I call them the Greater We. And there is no lack of examples that prove this right. The stories I tell in this book – all part of my lived experience – highlight practical examples of how collective action can create these Greater We’s. Whether it was Tunisia’s transformation from dictatorship to democracy, AAP’s landslide victory that disrupted India’s long-established two-party system, Mother Agnes’ reconciliation efforts in Homs, or the installation of Hole-in-the-Wall computers at a government school in Khajuraho to expand access to digital technology – each of these moments pointed to the same possibility: real impact through shared effort, often against the odds.
The core intention of 2084 was to challenge readers to move beyond passive acceptance of the status quo and to recognize the potential for positive, collective transformation in a hyper-connected world.
It Takes a Strong Me to Create a Greater We
2084 — though fully laid out and graced with a stunning cover — never quite reached a stage where I felt satisfied enough to publish it (see at the bottom of this post). Yet here you can have a look at it. Four months in the mountains simply weren’t enough to fully bring my vision to life. And once I reached Ken River Lodge, my focus shifted, and I engaged in a new village project. So 2084 remains a collection of stories told — more of a vivid draft than a fine-tuned work. Still, it holds its place in my media archive, and visually, it’s without doubt one of the most polished and striking documents in the collection.
What became obvious to me though, while writing 2084 was that a stronger sense of collective responsibility does require, without any exception, a strong individual-centered focus Me’s (individuals). Unlike in Orwell’s 1984, where the collective is twisted into a tool of control — and where Winston, under immense pressure, ultimately betrays Julia and loses his sense of self, coming to accept and even love Big Brother, the We in Orwell’s 1984 — the We I’m pointing to is rooted in agency, connection, and shared purpose of individuals. Not oppression, but collaboration.
In a world that is increasingly interconnected yet often fractured, the idea of collective well-being feels both urgent and elusive. We speak of community, solidarity, shared purpose, and global citizenship, but these ideals don’t materialize on their own. They begin with individuals. Not just any individuals, but those with strength of character, clarity of purpose, and value, and a willingness to serve something beyond themselves.
To serve the collective, one must first be rooted in self-awareness and inner stability. This doesn’t mean being self-centered, but rather being self-anchored. In peace with yourself. Humble, vulnerable, no ego. Individuals who know their values, who can act with integrity even when no one is watching, who take responsibility for their impact on others — this is the kind of individual who can meaningfully contribute to the common good. Empathy, humility, courage, and resilience are not just admirable traits; they are foundational qualities for anyone who hopes to build or sustain community. Each year, we honor and cherish a few of these individuals when the Nobel Peace Prize is awarded.
It’s a high standard.
Too often, calls for unity carry an unspoken demand: conform, fall in line, silence your individuality for the so-called greater good. There’s usually a hidden agenda behind it. Cults do this all the time. And to me, what’s unfolding under Donald Trump and the Republican Party feels like a modern-day example of just that. Real unity isn’t about erasing differences — it’s about individuals showing up fully, and using their unique perspectives and strengths to enrich the whole. A strong Me does not disappear in the We, but rather helps to shape it consciously and ethically. It’s a continuous journey, marked by frequent points of friction. It’s democracy at its core, isn’t it?
In this context, the Internet holds immense potential. When used wisely, it becomes a tool for connection, collaboration, and collective action. It can amplify unheard voices, foster cross-cultural understanding, and mobilize people around shared causes — from climate justice to social equity. Digital platforms enable individuals to share their stories, learn from one another, and organize in ways that were previously unimaginable. At its best, the Internet helps turn individual insight into common understanding, drives action, and is a mirror of global awareness. Of course, this does require individuals to make a conscious choice: to resist the urge to flood the internet with cat videos, artfully angled avocado toast, and endless selfies — and instead, share something that might actually matter.
Yet the same tools that can build a greater We can just as easily break it. Online anonymity often doubles as a mask for cruelty. Algorithms, instead of connecting us, can trap us in digital bubbles. This threat of echo chambers is very real — spaces where people hear only what they already believe, while inconvenient truths are scrolled past, blocked, or buried by the feed. And it’s not theoretical — we see it daily on Facebook, Amazon, X … pick your platform.
That’s why the strength of the individual matters more than ever — not loudness, but discernment, values, and the ability to stay grounded. A strong Me doesn’t use the internet as a mirror for ego, but as a bridge to reach beyond it.
Ultimately, a sustainable We depends on individuals who are not only capable but also willing to serve, not from a place of martyrdom, but from a sense of shared humanity. It is the strength of such individuals that holds the fragile threads of the collective together.
The Greater We Starts With Me!
Naturally, the next question that came to my mind was: How do I contribute to this Greater We? I had plenty of time to mull it over — long stretches on the motorbike, endless walks with Lenny through the mountains and along the Indus River. And somewhere between the wind in my face and Lenny sniffing every second rock, the answer started to take shape. I looked at my digital behavior, my choices, and I realized: yes, I do contribute to the greater We. I’ve created my own media diet, I share knowledge freely with causes I care about, and I speak up when I disagree. I don’t just scroll, I try to engage. But still, a thought stuck with me like a pebble in my boot: I could do more.
In hindsight, my decision to leave the business world and step into the unknown had everything to do with that realization. I’d had enough of pseudo-communities built on hashtags, the performative messaging of peer groups, and those ego-pumped success stories chasing nothing but more, more, more. At some point, I just… stepped off that ride.
What became essential to me wasn’t how much more I could get – but how much more I could give, and how consciously I could give it. The fact that I gave up everything I had and the projects I’ve thrown myself into over the past decades weren’t just “work”; they were signposts pointing me toward a different kind of purpose. They nudged me, sometimes gently and sometimes like a slap, to rethink habits and attitudes that did not serve a greater We.
Because here’s the thing: the greater We doesn’t need another app designed to keep us addicted, or another startup scaling at the speed of burnout. It doesn’t need more noise dressed up as innovation. It needs something else entirely — a quieter kind of progress, built on empathy, dignity, mutual respect, and the humility to cherish people and places for what they are, not what they can be monetized into.
And somewhere along the way, without fanfare or a five-year plan, I’d already started walking down that road. I just hadn’t realized it yet.
When I left Ken River Lodge, I knew the majestic Himalayas — in Hinduism and Buddhism often called the realm of the gods — had something to tell me. All I had to do was listen. Carefully. And stay aware.
This realization set me off on a long and winding journey – one that’s as important as it is unfinished. I’m still on it today, and truthfully, I don’t think it ever ends. Perfection? Nowhere in sight. But I keep going, step by step, a little deeper each time, hoping to become, well… a better human. Not in a grand, saintly sense – just better than I was yesterday. It’s a messy process, full of stumbles and moments where I fall right back into old traps I thought I’d escaped from. But the difference is, now I notice. I see the traps – so I am able to soften their edges.
And strange as it sounds, I enjoy it. The struggle, the reflection, even the fails — they’ve all made my life richer, more textured, more real. They unravel the real ‘Me’ more and more.
The Greater We Requires Discernment From Me
To become the kind of Me who can truly contribute to a meaningful We, I’ve had to stretch beyond the obvious — and unlearn more than I ever imagined. Awareness, resilience, responsibility — these aren’t just traits I can tick off a list; they’re muscles I have to keep working, again and again. Sure, formal education plays its part. But what really counts is the kind of learning that stirs something deeper — the curiosity to keep asking, the empathy to keep caring, and the critical thinking to keep questioning, especially when the answers are far from clear.
To grow into a stronger Me, I’ve had to learn how to listen — not just to others, but to the silence of mountains, the rhythms of nature, and that quieter voice inside myself. I’ve had to practice asking better questions, sitting with contradictions, and resisting the urge to wrap things up in neat little conclusions. It’s humbling work, often uncomfortable, but necessary.
In a digital world drowning in noise, the ability to filter, question, and make sense of what comes at me is as crucial as any degree. I wrote about it in my media diet — because a strong Me doesn’t just consume content, it metabolizes it. I don’t want to be a passive sponge for whatever trends or headlines are floating around. I want to form opinions that are rooted in principle, not popularity. I want to know the difference between what’s loud and what’s true. That line is often razor thin. And yes, sometimes I miss it. Yet, I don’t give up and I keep trying to walk that line.
The Greater We Requires Equanimity From Me
Equanimity is a rare and underrated superpower — the art of staying calm when life decides to throw its usual chaos party and forgets to send you an invitation. Or has John Lennon once out it: “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”
Picture this: you are late, it’s 40 degrees, your GPS is having an existential crisis, and the person in front of you is attempting a ten-minute reverse park. Equanimity is not honking. Not even internally.
It’s not detachment, no — I am still in the game. I still care. But I don’t let every push and pull of life yank my inner world around like a sock in a washing machine. It’s like having an emotional suspension system. The bumps are still there, but I don’t feel every jolt in my spine.
On my journey, I’ve come to think of equanimity as the friend I didn’t know I needed — the one who shows up not when things are easy, but when the soup’s boiling over, my plans are unraveling, and someone just forwarded me a 10-minute voice message. Equanimity smiles, sips tea, and says, “Interesting. Let’s see what happens next.”
It’s not that I stop reacting. I just stop reacting blindly. I pause. I breathe. I choose my response instead of being dragged by my reflexes. It’s awareness with a sense of humor. Grace under pressure. A kind of elegant nonchalance that isn’t indifferent, but deeply rooted — in trust, in perspective, and in the knowledge that most storms pass, and most things are not the end of the world – unless they actually are, in which case equanimity also helps you face that with a straight spine and a kind heart.
In short: equanimity is emotional kung fu. And once I begin to cultivate it, life still throws its punches — I just don’t flinch every time it does. It helps me to navigate my inner landscapes without fear or denial. I become increasingly able to regulate my emotions without suppressing them, communicate clearly without overpowering others, and remain grounded in who I am, even when the world around me is unstable.
This requires a lot of practice that develops inner stability, such as mindfulness, reflection, honest dialogue, mentorship, or any form of learning that strengthens the self without hardening the ego.
The Greater We Requires Integrity From Me
And then there’s ethics. The ability to make decisions that serve not only the self, but also the common good. This kind of moral clarity is not innate — it must be shaped through real-life experiences, deep reflection, and exposure to diverse perspectives. It’s learning how to stand up for something without stepping on others, how to stay soft without being naive, and how to be principled without becoming rigid.
Ultimately, the Me that can help build a better We is both informed and introspective, skilled and self-aware. I’ve done and I am still doing the work to understand my own identity, and I am committed to using my freedom to serve something larger than myself. I’ve chosen not to hide behind algorithms or avatars, but to show up — fully human — in service of a collective that thrives on difference, not sameness.
The Missing Revolution
If I were to write 2084 today, there’s no doubt I’d add one more chapter: The Missing Revolution.
The decade of the 2010s was marked by explosive mass uprisings that embodied the spirit of collective action, yet time and again failed to deliver lasting transformation. From the Arab Spring’s initial euphoria to Egypt’s return to authoritarianism under Sisi, from Syria’s descent into civil war to the disillusionment with the AAP in India and even our we_NATO project, the pattern is striking: Collective movements often falter after their initial breakthroughs. This is quite disenchanting.
What are the deeper reasons behind these disappointments — what are the internal dynamics, structural gaps, and strategic blind spots that collective efforts must learn to navigate? It is essential to understand these failures, only then we begin to see what a more resilient kind of We could look like — and what kind of Me’s it will take to build it.
The three examples for successful transformation I’ll provide below are grounded in the Me/We relationship and/or the smooth transition between hierarchy and collective. While I focus on this particular view, I’m aware that other theories offer different and equally valuable insights — I simply chose not to unpack them here. This would be another book 🙂
What Was Lacking?
Many of these movements adopted a horizontalist approach, eschewing traditional hierarchies and centralized leadership in favor of decentralized, leaderless models. While this structure aimed to embody democratic ideals and inclusivity, it often led to strategic disarray and vulnerability. Without clear leadership or a unified strategy, movements struggled to negotiate with power structures or to present coherent demands, leaving them susceptible to co-optation or suppression.
What was missing was a smooth, deliberate interlocking of these two essential gears of change — grassroots momentum and strategic structure. The revolutionaries ignited passion, mobilized the streets, and captured imaginations, but they struggled to fuse that collective energy with the kind of long-term planning, coordination, and vision required to build something that lasts.
In many cases, it seemed as if they were waiting for the existing system to reform itself from within. But systems don’t dismantle themselves. They protect their own logic. And history has made one thing clear: lasting change doesn’t come from patching up the old — it comes from building the new. A new system that renders the old one irrelevant. However, building that new system means knowing when to lean into hierarchy — for clarity, direction, and cohesion — and when to let decentralization lead, to keep things adaptive, inclusive, and rooted in the people.
Think of it like a jazz band — the leader sets the key and tempo, but each musician (the strong Me) improvises within that framework.
How Can It Be Done?
There are compelling real-world examples that demonstrate how this balance can actually work. Take these three — not flawless, but alive with intention.
Let me begin with Tang Feng, better known internationally as Audrey Tang. A renowned free software programmer and digital visionary, Tang became Taiwan’s Digital Minister in 2016. Her appointment followed her influential role in the 2014 Sunflower Movement, a 23-day student-led protest that successfully blocked a controversial trade agreement with China.
Tang’s personal commitment to openness, inclusivity, and technological innovation has been instrumental in shaping Taiwan’s digital policies. I have known Audrey since her teenage years and have interviewed her multiple times.
Recognizing that sustainable change requires collective effort, Tang has championed platforms that facilitate public participation in governance. Initiatives like vTaiwan and the civic tech community g0v enable citizens to engage directly with policy-making processes, reflecting a shift towards a more collaborative form of democracy. These platforms embody the We by harnessing the collective intelligence and diverse perspectives of the populace to inform governmental decisions.
Tang’s approach skillfully navigates the tension between hierarchical structures and decentralized participation. While she holds a ministerial position within the government, she operates with a commitment to radical transparency and open collaboration. By making meeting transcripts publicly available and encouraging open dialogues, Tang reduces traditional power imbalances and fosters a more inclusive decision-making environment. This balance ensures that while there is a clear structure to implement policies, there is also ample space for grassroots input and innovation.
Under Tang’s leadership, Taiwan has become a pioneer in digital democracy. Her initiatives have enhanced governmental transparency, increased public trust, and improved the responsiveness of public services. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Tang’s strategies, such as the “humor over rumor” campaign, effectively combated misinformation and demonstrated the efficacy of combining technological tools with civic engagement.
Audrey Tang’s work illustrates how empowering individuals and fostering collective action can lead to more resilient and responsive governance. By balancing hierarchical structures with decentralized participation, she has created a model of digital democracy that leverages the strengths of both the Me and the We.
Another example of a successful implementation of that strategy is Valve, the renowned software company behind iconic games like Half-Life, Portal, and the Steam platform. Valve’s culture is a compelling example of what happens when strong Me’s — individuals who are self-aware, responsible, curious, and grounded in values — come together to create a powerful and productive We. Their Handbook for New Employees, now something of a cult classic, spells out exactly how they make it work.
At Valve, there’s no rigid hierarchy telling you what to do. You’re trusted to figure out where you can make the most meaningful contribution. But that only works if the individual shows up with a clear sense of purpose, emotional maturity, and the willingness to serve something bigger than their own ego. Finding these kinds of Me’s is absolutely essential for Valve — which is why recruiting and selecting new team members is treated as the company’s most critical process. They know precisely how much it matters, and they’ve designed their recruiting approach accordingly with that level of care and intention.
The absence of formal bosses at Valve doesn’t mean there’s no structure — it just means the structure emerges from within, from a shared understanding of what matters. This is the We: not imposed from above, but built moment by moment by a collective of strong, self-directed individuals.
Now, apply this to the context of collective movements: In their initial phases, they embodied the power of a decentralized We. They were fluid, creative, inclusive — a celebration of grassroots action. But many of these movements faltered not because they lacked passion, but because the Me’s within them hadn’t always developed the tools — strategic thinking, long-term commitment, emotional literacy — needed to navigate the shift from uprising to institution-building. The Occupy Movement is a classic example for this. In essence, Occupy lit a fire – but it had no clear plan for what to do once the flames caught. It shaped the discourse but not the system. The participants were able to say “no” to the status quo, but not always “yes” to a shared future. And without that grounded inner work, the We couldn’t hold.
Valve’s model works because the Me’s have done that inner work, and/or are expected to do it constantly. New employees are given six to twelve months to find their footing and discover where they can contribute most meaningfully within the company. Their freedom is matched with responsibility. Their choices ripple through the company, so they’re trained to consider the collective good. This is precisely the kind of interplay needed in any sustainable movement: individuals strong enough to think for themselves, but wise enough to think of others. People who don’t just react, but respond with integrity, humility, and care.
At Valve hierarchy isn’t the enemy — rigidity is. And decentralization isn’t the solution — maturity is.
The third example is Frank Roebers, former CEO of Synaxon AG, Europe’s largest IT partner network, headquartered in Schloß Holte-Stukenbrock, Germany. Founded in 1991, the company connects and supports over 3,200 independent IT businesses, including IT retailers, service providers, and system integrators. Frank initiated a profound change in corporate culture and organisation with the radical introduction of a company-wide wiki as the sole internal communication tool. In 2007 he completely switched off all other means of communication – including email, traditional intranet solutions and messenger services – he focused on radical transparency, self-organisation and the consistent decentralisation of knowledge. At the same time, he deliberately disrupted the company’s traditional hierarchical structure by introducing elements of a matrix organization. This move created “free creative spaces” for employees beyond the confines of hierarchy and led to a redistribution of responsibilities and competencies. It marked a clear organizational shift toward a much more horizontal structure.
(The interview is in German)
The wiki became the company’s central nervous system: since then, all information, decisions, processes, and discussions have been fully accessible to every employee. This step led to an enormous leap of faith towards the workforce and changed the way collaboration worked within the company. Employees were not only given access to all relevant information, but also the opportunity to make their own contributions, scrutinise processes, and help shape them. This promoted personal responsibility, efficiency, and a high level of commitment.
The board members, including Frank, were left with only a veto power. In theory, this right allowed Frank and the other two board members to override any decision made by the collective. But they never exercised it. According to Frank, it was often difficult for him to resist stepping in – but he understood that any intervention, any act of overruling, would have undermined the entire transformation process.
This open communication culture had a noticeable impact on recruitment. Synaxon faced challenges in attracting highly qualified talent, largely due to the company’s relatively remote physical location. However, this new working culture increasingly attracted applicants who sought autonomous work and transparent structures – individuals who are intrinsically motivated and do not want to work in traditional, hierarchically organised companies. The corporate culture thus became a strong, unique selling point on the labour market. Yet, the shift also led to turnover. Over the course of about two years, around thirty percent of the staff left – because they didn’t want to work in such a self-directed environment. Their sense of Me simply wasn’t aligned with this kind of culture.
The reorganisation also had a positive economic impact. The increased transparency and efficiency led to faster decision-making processes, better knowledge management, and an overall agile, adaptable organisation. Errors could be identified more quickly and innovations implemented more rapidly. As a result, the company’s results improved measurably, which Roebers himself confirmed publicly on several occasions. The introduction of the wiki was therefore not just a technological change, but an expression of a far-reaching cultural change with long-term, sustainable success.
2084 Isn’t a Dream – Just Like 1984 Wasn’t Fiction
My vision for 2084 isn’t some far-off utopia – it’s within reach. We already see the seeds in action. The success of any decentralized system – whether a workplace, a movement, or a full-blown revolution – hinges on the quality of its individuals. Strong Me’s make a strong We. And when that We comes alive, it needs agility to shift: sometimes fluid and horizontal, sometimes tightly coordinated – whatever the moment demands.
And as for 1984? Let’s drop the illusion. It was shelved as fiction, and people were almost disappointed that it had not happened till 1984, but reality clearly missed the memo. Turns out, dystopia doesn’t need sci-fi anymore. We’re already living the sequel.
Well, not exactly — there’s no Ministry of Truth with a sign on the door, and telescreens haven’t been nailed to every wall. But who needs clunky old tech when we’ve got smartphones, smart TVs, smart everythings, and “smart” assistants dutifully eavesdropping 24/7? Orwell imagined a world where the state watches everything. Turns out, we were happy to do the job ourselves – for free – and even update the software regularly.
And what about the concept of truth? These days, facts are less about what’s true and more about what’s trending. “Doublethink” isn’t just a dystopian relic – it’s alive and well in politics, advertising, social media, and dinner-table debates. You can now believe two contradictory things at once, so long as they both go viral.
As for rewriting history, that’s gone digital: WE do the job to delete, reframe, repost. And language? Orwell had “Newspeak.” We’ve got press releases, corporate jargon, political spin, influencers and Twitter disclaimers. Much more efficient.
The real kicker? We did this to ourselves. There was no Big Brother forcing us. We opted in. Accepted the terms and conditions. Enabled cookies. Followed, liked, subscribed – and surrendered. Surveillance capitalism makes the Thought Police look like amateurs.
So no, 1984 hasn’t literally come true. But give it time. And maybe, just maybe, check your settings.
Here you can download a PDF-file of the unfinished version of 2084. Enjoy the read.
