Cloud Cutting by MobiCycle

There is something they have taken from you, and they took it so gently, so patiently, that you never once felt the hand in your pocket. Your photographs. Your letters. Your work. The whole record of your days. You believe these things are yours, and then you look closer, and you find they live in a building you have never seen, owned by men you will never meet, who may read them, price them, or lock the door against you on any morning it suits them. You did not agree to this. No one asked you. You arrived here one small surrender at a time, until the renting of your own life came to feel like the weather: natural, placeless, and beyond your power to change. Perhaps it is the money that brought you here; the quiet subscriptions that never end, draining you month after month for something you will never own. Perhaps it is the thought of strangers reading your letters and cataloguing your face. Or perhaps it is the knowledge that these vast warehouses drink rivers and burn power enough to light a city, only to hold what you could keep on a shelf in your own home. Whatever carried you to this page, you were right to come. It is not the weather. It is a business. And this book was written to tell you the truth of it; and then, which is the part they would rather you never heard, to show you the way out. You will see what the cloud really is: not something in the sky, but warehouses of machines, humming in the dark, that you pay for and never lay eyes on. You will learn who owns them, and why you must not believe a word these men tell you. You will count, plainly, what the arrangement has cost you: your money, your privacy, your freedom, and the earth itself, which pays in water and power for every idle copy you were made to rent. And you will be told the hard parts before you meet them, because you are owed the truth. And then this book does the thing the others never do. It shows you how to leave - not in theory, but in your own two hands, and soon. Your photographs, your files, the films you paid for, the passwords that are the keys to your life: each one carried home, to a machine that answers to you and to no one else. Your bills fall. Your letters go unread by anyone but you. The great machines burn a little less on your account. It asks no special genius of you, only that you decide you are finished being a guest in your own house. There is a patient teacher at your side for every step, and there is nothing here you cannot do. You were never meant to rent your life. Come and take it back.