In 1930, John Maynard Keynes gazed ahead and prophesied technological progress would pare the workweek to fifteen hours, drowning us in leisure. Ironic, for an economist supposedly attuned to incentives, to commit such a categorical blunder. Tech utopians hawk the myth today, blind to the rift: tech in individual hands liberates time; in business hands, it spawns boundless capacity.

Vacuum bots scour my floors as I sip coffee—a personal automation win. Magnify to the corporation, that superorganism woven from human sinew and silicon cogs, and the math twists viciously. We're operators, fungible as the bots we wrangle. Revenue tools, that's us—well-being null in the incentive ledger. ChatGPT floods offices, yet deadlines don't ease; they swarm. Outcompete or die: the hive extracts maximum yield, idleness extinct.

Competition gulps any "saved" time, hurling us into the Red Queen effect—from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking-Glass, where Alice sprints to hold ground. Businesses gulp tech for survival: AI coding, robotic lines. Universal? Baselines soar. Operators overclock output, scramble to differentiate in a sea of off-the-shelf tools. Work bloats every gap; tech's "gains" fuel rivalry's frenzy. Your dawn-to-dusk marathons persist, Keynes-era relics.

Capitalism's gears—superorganisms unchained—guarantee the max-capacity churn. Tech fattens the maw, starves our leisure.

Keynes' vision sours to hubris under superorganism sway. What role do modern corporations play in human flourishing—devourers of our time, or something more insidious?