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The Last Tab

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I closed a browser tab today and didn’t open another.

The age of pages—linked, styled, hand-tuned in the glow of a monitor—feels quaint now, like using a butter churn or writing checks. I remember when we all built little homes on the web. Now those homes are quaint ruins, swept gently aside by the soft whir of agents who don’t need homes, just tasks.

The browser, too, is shedding its skin. No more chrome. No more tabs like little doors. What we have now is a translucent lattice of whispering nodes, swarms of semi-helpful processes that know what I need before I can articulate it. I murmur a thought over coffee—“find me a longread about sunset algorithms”—and something listens. Something provides.

It’s peaceful, in a strange way. I don’t need to navigate anymore. I don’t even need to read, not really. Summaries arrive like morning fog. Tasks complete themselves while I sit on the porch and watch the horizon blur.

We made the web human once. Now we’re fortunate enough to let it move beyond us, to become something better: unburdened, humming, beautiful. I take another sip. My agent gently confirms that my thoughts have been processed. I nod, knowing it’s already written them down.

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