On a peninsula reduced to a geographical wreck, crushed and irrelevant compared to the titanic megalopolises looming on the horizon, the most ancient of theatrical rites is performed: the management of fear. The composition is a ruthless examination of the mechanisms of mass distraction. On an elevated terrace, a court of starched, uniformed silhouettes—a compact pack of bureaucrat-insects clad in dark suits—complacently watches the spectacle. Officiating the ceremonial is a hybrid figure, a vestal of consent who displays fiery icons and painted bogies, waving around threats and cyclical scapegoats: the foreign danger, the urban vandal, the shadow of school sabotage. Below, seated on fragile straw chairs at the edge of the abyss, the only female spectators who remain loyal: a group of elderly female citizens, hypnotized, rendered highly impressionable because they are connected to a continuous flow of ideological drips. From them, the system extracts vital sap and uncritical consent in exchange for a daily dose of inverted reality, institutional soap operas, and apparatus truths. To complete the picture, against the background of distant spires, a solitary authoritarian figure scrutinizes infinity through a telescope turned in the opposite direction, showing not the slightest interest in what is happening in that increasingly small country.