Here’s the rub, isn’t it? The article scratches at a truth—those without smartphones are cast adrift, unfairly marooned beyond the pulsing grid of apps that bind us. But let’s tilt the lens: the real specter isn’t just exclusion, it’s the hollowing out of what hums beneath. Picture life stripped to a sterile dance of swipes—gone is the grain of a vinyl’s hiss, the heft of a letter pressed into your palm, traded for the cold flicker of a screen. The Kosmos, that vast weave of sound and soul, doesn’t sing through circuits; it lingers in the crackle, the pause, the touch. We’re not merely punishing the app-shy—we’re draining the tactile from our bones, flattening the world for a slicker fix. And what’s left when the static clears? A shadow of harmony, bending under the weight of convenience, whispering a question we can’t quite answer: how far will we sink before the signal fades?