Earth's telescopes cannot detect asteroids approaching from the daytime sky because the Sun's glare prevents observation, creating a fundamental blind spot where dangerous asteroids can approach without warning; this is being addressed by new space-based infrared telescopes like NEO Surveyor and NEOMIR that will detect these hidden asteroids by their heat signatures from a forward position in space.
Deep Dive
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Deep Dive
An Asteroid Hit Us From Our Blind Spot... and We Never Saw It Coming
Added:There is a direction in the sky that no telescope on earth is allowed to look.
It is not far away and it is not hidden.
It is the brightest thing you have ever seen. It is the sun. And because our eyes and our instruments cannot stare into that glare without being blinded, there is a whole slice of space wrapped around it. A wedge of daylight sky that we simply cannot watch. Anything drifting toward us from inside that wedge arrives without a word. No warning, no headline. It is just suddenly terribly here. One winter morning over a Russian city of a million people, that wedge of sky proved exactly what it can do. A stone the size of a house came out of the morning glare, unseen by every instrument on Earth, and 1,500 people were under falling glass before anyone could say the word asteroid.
No telescope failed that day. Every instrument worked exactly as designed, and that is precisely what should frighten you. I want to be honest with you from the first minute. This is not a prophecy of doom. What you are about to hear is stranger than any conspiracy.
There is a hole in our vision of the sky built into the plain geometry of where we live and everything in this story walks in through it. This is not a forecast. It is a property of the sky.
Let us begin.
On an ordinary winter morning, a little after 7:00, the people of a Russian city called Chelabinsk were doing ordinary things. Driving to work in the dark blue cold, scraping ice from windshields, standing at kitchen windows with the first coffee of the day, watching the light come up over an industrial town of a million souls going about a Friday. It was the middle of February in the year 2013, and there was nothing in the sky worth looking at, and nothing on any screen in any observatory anywhere on Earth that whispered, "This morning would be different from any other." And then the sky caught fire. For a few brilliant seconds, there were two suns over Chelabinsk. [music] A second sun, blue white and impossibly bright, brighter than the real one, tearing low across the morning at something near 19 km every second, close to 40,000 mph. It was a single stone, no bigger than a house, perhaps 20 m across, [music] and it had met the top of our atmosphere at a speed the human body was never built to comprehend. close to 20 m above the frozen ground, it could bear the pressure no longer, and it came apart all at once. The blast carried the force of roughly 500 kilotons of TNT, more than 30 times the bomb that fell on Hiroshima, the most powerful air burst the Earth had felt in a 100 years. It never struck the ground. It became light and pressure in the open air. The flash came first, silent and enormous, throwing hard shadows across the snow.
The sound had not arrived yet. Then it did. The shock wave reached the city minutes later and moved through it like a hand sweeping across a table. It did not topple the apartment blocks. It did something stranger and more intimate than that. It blew in the windows. All of them across the whole city at nearly the same instant. And most of the people who were hurt that morning, and there were roughly 1,500 of them, were hurt because they had done the most human thing in the world. They had heard the growing roar. They had seen the second sun blaze past, and they had walked to the window to look. The glass was already on its way to meet them. Now, here is the thing that should stop you cold, because it is the beginning of everything this story [music] has to tell. On that very same day, the astronomers of the world were not asleep at their instruments. They were watching the sky with real attention. They were simply watching the wrong rock. For weeks they had known that a separate asteroid, one they had named Duende, would sweep very close to Earth that night, closer even than many of our own satellites. And they had tracked it and measured it, and they knew almost to the minute when it would arrive, and that it would cleanly miss. Two stones, one day.
The one we were watching sailed past exactly as promised, harmless and precise, a triumph of patient calculation. The one we never saw put 1,500 people under falling glass a few hours earlier. [music] The two had nothing to do with one another.
Different orbits, different histories [music] arriving on the same page of the calendar by pure and meaningless chance.
We had our eye pressed to the telescope and the danger walked in behind us.
There is a particular kind of humility in that image, and it is worth sitting with before we go on. That morning showed us at close to [music] our best.
Weeks of patient tracking, orbits computed, a close flyby predicted to the minute and delivered exactly as forecast. We had every reason to feel that the sky at last was something we understood, something we could stand guard over. And it was on precisely that morning, while our confidence was at its highest, and our finest instruments were aimed at the rock we had already tamed, that a different stone we knew nothing about slipped in from the one quarter of the sky we had long ago given up trying to see. The universe did not arrange this to teach us anything. It has no interest in us at all. But if you were writing the story to make a point, you could not have placed the two events with a steadier hand.
So why did we see the harmless one and miss the dangerous one? It was not carelessness. It was not a matter of money. It was not something anyone could have fixed by trying a little harder that particular morning. The Chelabinsk [music] stone came at us out of the direction of the sun. It rode in along the daylight less than 15° from that unbearable glare. And for any telescope standing on the ground, looking there is like trying to spot a single moth crossing the face of a search light. Not one instrument [music] anywhere on the planet caught it before it burst. It was never tracked. It was never even named until after it had already hurt people.
It came out of the one direction we are physically unable to watch. That is what this story is about. Not a conspiracy because there is none and not a failure because no amount of effort will ever let a telescope on the ground stare into the sun. It is about that blind spot itself, the wedge of sky we cannot police because our own star is parked in the middle of it. You deserve the honest arithmetic. The odds that any one city is struck in any one year are small, and I will keep faith with you about that the whole way through. The dread here is quieter and stranger than the end of the world. It is the simple fact that when something does come from that direction, [music] it comes with no warning at all.
Over the time we have together, we are going to walk the whole way around this blind spot. We will learn why it exists, why it cannot simply be fixed, what has already slipped through it, and what we are finally building to close it. To understand the blind spot, you first have to understand how we find these stones at all. [music] And the truth is humbler than you might imagine. An asteroid makes no light of its own. It is a dark rock in a dark ocean. And the only reason we can ever see one is that a little sunlight lands on it and a little of that light bounces back to us.
So the hunt for dangerous asteroids is really a hunt for the faintest possible sparks of reflected sun. And to catch a spark that faint, [music] you need a sky as black as you can find. You need night. The great surveys that guard us do their work in the deep hours. Their telescopes [music] turned firmly away from the sun, staring out into the darkness behind the Earth, watching for a single moving speck that betrays itself by creeping against the fixed and patient stars. Everything we have ever cataloged, every rock we have ever named and tracked and cleared, we found by looking away from our star into the dark. Which means the one place we can never point our eyes is the exact place the danger is lit from. Now hold that idea in your mind [music] because it should change how you hear a certain kind of comforting news. You have probably heard and it is genuinely true that we have found nearly all of the truly enormous asteroids, the civilization enders, the monsters miles across that could close an entire age of life on this planet. Those we have largely hunted down and none of the known ones are coming for us. That is real, and it is one of the quiet triumphs of our age. But the giants were always the easy quarry, precisely because they are giants. The bigger a rock is, the more sunlight it throws back at us, and the easier it is to catch even from very far away. Come down in [music] size, and the whole comforting picture falls apart in your hands. Of the smaller stones, the ones in the class of 10 to 20 m across, the Chelabinsk class, we have ever managed to track only about 500 against an estimated 20 million whose paths carry them somewhere near the Earth. 500 out of 20 million. And a careful study published in the very same year that Chelabinsk burned concluded that the danger from exactly these overlooked city rattling stones may be, in the paper's own careful words, an order of magnitude higher than earlier estimates had assumed.
So the sky is not the safe, well-mapped, thoroughly surveyed place we like to picture when we go to sleep. It is a room we have lit only on one side. We have swept the [music] darkness behind us with astonishing patience and skill, and we have every right in the world to be proud of that. But the sweeping only ever covered the night. In front of us all day, every day, the window stays bright and blank and impossible. And over the years, we have quietly learned to stop looking at it because looking into it hurts our eyes and shows us nothing at all. It is not that we forgot the daytime sky was there. It is that we made an uneasy peace with the fact that we cannot see into it. And then we went back to guarding the dark, which is the only place our tools can work. And think for a [music] moment about what it truly means to have no warning at all. Almost every danger we live with hands us at least a little time. A storm gathers along the horizon, and the forecasts follow it for days.
The ground gives a first small tremor before the larger one arrives.
Even the things that frighten us most tend to announce themselves in some fashion, to grant us the modest mercy of a few seconds to brace, to reach for someone we love, to step back from the window. The stones that come out of the sun grant no such mercy. There is no [music] gathering, no first tremor, no distant rumor running ahead of them.
The first thing anyone in Chelabinsk knew of it was the second sun already blazing over their heads. By the time a person could even begin to react, the whole event from the first blinding flash to the last falling shard of glass was already finished.
That is the real weight of the blind spot. Not that the sky is especially cruel to us, [music] but that from this one direction it is completely and perfectly silent.
to understand just how large that blank window really is. And to meet [music] the strange population of stones that spend their whole lives hiding inside it, never once wandering out to where our telescopes might catch them. We have to follow the hunters out into their darkness.
We have to stand beside them through one of those long cold nights on a mountaintop and watch patiently how the search for a dangerous asteroid actually works and where it must always stop.
Only then can we see for ourselves the exact shape and the exact price of the hole in the sky.
Stand for a while with one of the hunters out on a cold mountaintop in the small hours and you begin to feel the shape of the problem in your own bones.
The telescope is turned to the darkest quarter of the sky, the region directly opposite the sun because that is where an asteroid gives us the most to work with. Out there behind the Earth, a rock is [music] lit full in the face. The way the full moon is lit, its whole sunward side blazing back at us. The survey takes an image, waits, takes another, and a patient machine compares them, hunting for the one dim point that has shifted [music] against the thousands that have not. Night after night, the hunters sweep that far, dark hemisphere.
And slowly, faithfully, they fill in the map.
It is beautiful work and it has made us safer than any generation before us. But notice what it can never do. It can only ever look away from the sun.
Now turn and imagine looking the other way toward the daylight side and you meet two curses at once and they compound each other. The first is simple glare. To look near the sun is to drown every faint thing in a [music] flood of scattered light. the same way a single oncoming headlight can erase the whole road behind it. The second curse is deeper and it is a matter of pure geometry.
A rock that sits between us and the sun has its lit face turned away from us toward the sun and its dark face turned toward the earth. It is a new moon, not a full one. So even if you could somehow push the glare aside, the thing you were straining to see would be showing you its unlit back. A black stone against a bright sky, a shadow you were never going to catch. Drowned in light and turned away from you. That is the daytime side of the sky. And it is why we gave up on it. And here is what makes that surrender matter. There are whole families of asteroids that spend the greater share of their lives inside that glare, as though they had chosen the one hiding place we cannot search.
Astronomers have names for them. The ones whose orbits keep them almost entirely inside the orbit of the Earth, tucked in close to the sun, and the ones whose looping paths cross ours, but spend much of their time sunward of us.
From where we stand, these rocks hug the sun. They rise with it and set with it.
They ride across our sky in the daylight hours, invisible in the blue. And only rarely, briefly, do they swing far enough from the glare for a night telescope [music] to have any chance of catching them at all. An entire population living in the one room of the sky we have agreed we cannot enter. We do not know how many of them there are.
By the nature of the thing, we cannot know because the counting requires the seeing. The only times we tend to catch these sunward wanderers at all are the brief, almost magical minutes of twilight, when the sun has just slipped below the horizon, but the rock is still catching [music] its light, a narrow window when the glare relents for a moment. It is a keyhole, and most of these stones spend their whole lives on the far side of [music] the door, which means that much of what we believe about this hidden family, we do not truly see with our own eyes. We infer it from the few we manage to glimpse, [music] from the hard mathematics of orbits, from the occasional wanderer that strays out into the honest dark where we can finally get a clean look at it. It is a little like being certain a house is crowded [music] because now and then a single person steps out onto the porch. You never see the gathering inside. You simply reason that it must be there. At this point, a reasonable person raises a reasonable objection, and it deserves a real answer rather than a wave of the hand. Surely, you might say, after all these decades and all these telescopes, the important asteroids have been found by now. Surely the map is nearly complete. So, let us look at the map as it actually stands.
Early this year, at a great gathering of scientists, the woman, then leading planetary defense for the American Space Agency, laid out the honest numbers. Her office estimates that there are roughly 25,000 asteroids out there, large enough to destroy a city, each one at least 140 m across. Of those 25,000, we have found only about 10,000.
Which means that somewhere around 15,000 city killers are still out there, unmapped, uncataloged, their orbits unknown to anyone alive. We have completed only about 40% of the search we set for ourselves. Not the whole sky, less than half of it.
So the map is far from finished. that perhaps you might counter that hardly matters because surely if a truly dangerous one were coming we [music] would get some warning here the record is harder to argue with Chelabinsk gave us a warning of exactly zero but it was not alone on a July morning a few years later an asteroid we now know was large enough to level a city somewhere between the length of a football field and something considerably larger passed the Earth at a distance of about 70,000 km Kome that is a fifth of the way to the moon which in the vastness of space [music] is a bullet grazing the skin. It was moving at around 24 km a second and we found it about a single day before it passed. [music] Not the great survey networks either. It was first caught by a small private observatory in Brazil almost by accident. It had come in through the daytime sky, hidden in the glare. And by the time it swung far enough into the dark for anyone to see it at all, it was already here and already leaving. Afterward, scientists [music] at the space agency wrote to one another about it in words that stayed remarkably plain. This one did sneak up on us. That phrase is worth holding because it comes from the people whose entire profession is making sure that nothing sneaks up on us. and they used it without flinching. A planetary scientist at a respected laboratory speaking about the same broad problem put the honest state of things about as plainly as it can be put. We don't know where most of the asteroids are that can cause local to regional devastation.
Read that slowly. Not that we are behind schedule, not that we need a little more funding, [music] but that of the stones capable of wrecking a region, we do not know where most of them are. That is not a scare tactic. [music] It is a working scientist describing his own field with his eyes open. Then comes the last and best objection. And it is the one that people who follow this subject reach for with real hope because they have seen the good news. Did we not only a few years ago actually strike an asteroid on purpose and change its path? We did. A spacecraft was flown deliberately into a small moonlet of a larger asteroid and it shifted that little world's orbit by a measurable amount. Deflection is real.
It is no longer science fiction. We have proven with our own hands that a rock's course can be nudged. But read the fine print of that triumph because it is everything. To move an asteroid enough to matter, you have to reach it while it is still far away and give it the gentlest push years and years before it would ever arrive. And then let that tiny nudge grow over all those years into a clean miss. Deflection does not need a rocket so much as it needs time, years of it. And now set that beside the blind spot. Chelabinsk gave us zero warning. The stone from the daytime sky gave us a single day. You cannot spend years deflecting something you will not lay eyes on until the morning it arrives. The whole magnificent machinery of deflection rests on one silent assumption. [music] The assumption that we will see them coming. From the blind spot, we will not. None of this is new to our history, only newly understood.
Long before there were surveys, long before anyone thought to guard the sky [music] at all, the same thing happened on a scale that dwarfs Chelabinsk.
On a June morning in the year 1908, a little past 7:00 over the forests of Siberia, the sky tore open again. The blast flattened something like 800 square miles of trees, laying them down in neat rows, all pointing away from a single point, an area larger than many of our cities. Had it arrived over a capital instead of over empty tiger, [music] we would still be talking about the dead. The best reconstructions we can make more than a century later [music] suggests that this one too came in out of a bright morning sky out of the east and a little to the south at some 27 km a second at a shallow angle.
No one saw it coming because in that year there was nothing and no one whose job it was to look. It fell on empty forest instead of a city for one reason only, and that reason was luck. Not vigilance, not defense. Luck and the plain fact that most of the earth is still empty.
Let me pause here and say plainly what this is and what it is not because the difference matters. And I promised you honesty at the start. Nothing in this is a prediction that a city will be struck next year or in the next 10. The chance of that in any given year remains genuinely small [music] and you should not lie awake over it. Tangaska was the largest such blast in living memory and Chelabinsk [music] the largest in a 100 years and that very rarity tells you these are not everyday events. What we are tracing here is not a countdown. It is a [music] shape. It is a permanent feature of the sky we all live beneath. The danger is not that the blind spot is about to be used. [music] The danger is that it exists at all, silent and unwatched. and that whenever it does come into play, it will come into play with no notice given to anyone. And now we arrive at the hard turn in this story. The thing that took me a while to truly feel because at first it sounds backward. You would think that as we get better and better at watching the night sky, the danger would simply shrink evenly in every direction until it faded to nothing. It does not work that way. As the great surveys sweep the darkness and cross off rock after rock, retiring the known threats one by one, the risk that remains does not spread out thin and harmless. It concentrates [music] everything we can find in the dark. We are steadily finding. What is left over increasingly is precisely the population we cannot find. The stones that live in the glare, that come and go with the sun, that hide in the one room we cannot enter. The better we become at guarding the night, the more the remaining danger pulls into the day. Success in the dark does not close the blind spot. It empties everything else out around it until the blind spot is almost all that is left. Which leaves us with a question that sounds at first like a contradiction?
How do you watch a place you are physically unable to look at? You cannot build a bigger version of the same eye because a bigger eye on the ground is still an eye that goes blind when it turns toward the sun. The answer, it turns out, is not to look harder. It is to change what you are looking for and to change where you are standing when you look. And that means leaving the surface of the earth entirely and building something the world has never had before.
If you have driven a car for any real stretch of your life, your body already knows exactly what this whole story is about. You are on the highway and you want to move over one lane. You do the thing you were taught to do. You check your mirror and the mirror is clear. And so you begin to drift across and then out of nowhere a horn and your heart [music] jumps because there was a car there the entire time riding quietly in the one narrow wedge of road your mirror was never able to show you. You were not careless. You checked. The mirror simply has a gap built into it. A slice of the world it cannot reflect. And the only cure any driving instructor ever gave you was to stop trusting the glass alone and turn your head. That wedge has a name that everyone who has ever gripped a wheel understands in their bones. We call it the blind spot. And the Earth has one exactly like it. For the whole of human history, our planet has been changing lanes across the solar system with a mirror that has a hole in it, checking the dark glass behind us, seeing that it is clear and easing over, unable, [music] for reasons no effort can fix, to turn our head toward the sun and look. Mostly the lane has been empty. Now and then it has not been, [music] and when it has not been, we have called it a freak or a tragedy or luck because we never saw the car that was always there.
Everything we have built and everything we are about to build comes down [music] to a single overdue idea. It is time to give the planet a way to turn its head.
You cannot do it with a bigger mirror of the same kind. A larger telescope on the ground is still a piece of glass that goes white and useless the moment it swings toward the sun. Turning your head in this story [music] means two changes at once. And both of them are strange and both of them are already underway. The first change is what you look for. The second is where you stand to look. Take them one at a time because together they are how we finally see into the daytime side of the sky. [music] Start with what you look for. All this time we have been hunting for reflected sunlight, for the faint glint off a dark rock, which is exactly the thing the glare destroys. But a rock near the sun is not only lit by it, [music] it is warmed by it. It soaks up that heat and it glows gently in the deep infrared in the same invisible warmth your own body gives off in a dark room. And here [music] is the quiet miracle of it. A stone can have its lit face turned completely away from you, showing you nothing but its black unlit back and still be a warm coal against the freezing cold of space. In ordinary light, it is a shadow you can never catch. [music] In heat, it is a lantern.
So you stop hunting for the glint which the daytime sky will always drown and you start hunting for the warmth which it cannot hide. That single change [music] turns the invisible rock into a visible one. Now the second change which is where you stand. Even a heat-seeking telescope is in trouble if you leave it here on the ground or in orbit close to home because it is still sitting beside the earth looking outward with the sun in its face. So you do not leave it here. You fly it inward toward the sun and you park it at a special quiet place in space, a point of balance between the Earth and the Sun, where the pull of the two worlds holds a spacecraft steady, so that it travels around the sun in perfect step with us, never drifting away. Astronomers call it the first of the balance points, sunward of the Earth. And from that forward perch, the telescope can turn and look back across our own orbit, out into the very wedge of sky that blinds us from the ground.
It is standing in a place we could never stand, and looking from an angle we could never manage, and doing for the whole planet the one thing the driver does with a simple turn of the neck. It looks into the blind spot. This is not a dream or a [music] sketch on a napkin.
It is a real machine with a real name, an infrared telescope built to hunt the heat of these hidden stones from that forward balance point. And it is being assembled and tested right now. It has already passed the hard technical [music] reviews that decide whether a mission is truly ready to be built. The plan is to launch it in September of 2027.
And if the ordinary delays of hard engineering push on that date, no later than the following year. Once it is flying and settled at its post, it is meant to spend about 5 years sweeping the sky we have never properly searched with the goal of finding 2/3 [music] of those city killer asteroids, the ones 140 m and larger that are still missing from our map. 2/3 of the ones we cannot currently see. It [music] is quite literally the second mirror, the one that finally shows the lane beside us.
And it will not be alone. On the other side of the ocean, [music] Europe's space agency is designing a companion for that same forward perch, [music] a telescope with a narrower and more urgent job. It is not built to catalog the whole hidden population over years.
It is [music] built to catch the next Chelabinsk, the sudden stone coming in out of the glare, and to sound the alarm a few days before it arrives.
Not years of warning, which is what deflection would need, [music] but days, which is enough to do the human things.
To tell the people under it, to empty the buildings, to move away from the windows, [music] to turn a 1500 casualty morning into a frightening story that everyone lived to tell. That mission is aimed at the middle of the 2030s.
Between the two [music] of them, the wide, patient eye and the fast, watchful one, the planet is finally being fitted for the mirror it has always lacked.
It is worth stopping to feel how genuinely new all of this is. For every generation of humans who ever looked up, from the first ones who feared the sky to the ones who first learned to map it, that daytime wedge was simply a fact of life, a blind spot nobody could do a thing about. in exactly the way the driver's blind spot was just a fact of the road until someone thought to bolt a small curved mirror onto the door. We are the first people who have ever had the tools, the reason, and the will to add that extra mirror to the planet itself. Not one of our ancestors could have watched the daytime sky to save their lives. And once in a great while, their [music] lives did depend on it. We can. That is not a small inheritance to leave [music] behind. and it is being built in our own years on our own watch whether or not it ever reaches the evening news. [music] Before we let ourselves feel too safe though, the sky has one more lesson in humility, and it is a fresh one. Near the end of 2024, our surveys picked up a new asteroid, and for a short while, it did something no rock had done in the modern era of this work. Its odds of striking the Earth climbed over a matter of weeks to a little more than 3%. And the year it might do it if it did it was 2032.
For the people whose job is to watch these things, 3% is enormous.
Then, as more measurements came in and the orbit tightened, the chance of hitting the Earth fell to nothing at all. But the story did not end there because the same refined path then showed a small chance around 4% that it would strike the moon instead.
And only after more than a year of tracking with the most powerful telescope our species has ever flown turned upon it was that rock finally cleared for good in the early spring of this year shown [music] to miss even the moon by a comfortable margin.
sit with what that means because it is the whole argument in a single case.
This was a rock we could see. We watched it in the full daylight of our attention with our finest instruments for more than a year. And even so, it fooled us twice. First about the Earth and then about the moon before it finally let us pin it down. That is what it takes. all of that time and all of that hardware to be sure about a stone we can actually look at. Now remember the ones we cannot. The stones from the blind spot do not give you a year to study them.
They do not give you a week. They give you a single day or an hour or nothing at all. And there is no powerful telescope in the world that can lock down the path of something you will not even see until the morning it arrives.
The rock we watched needed everything we had. The rock we cannot watch offers nothing to work with.
So let me be as clear and as calm as I can be because you deserve the plain shape of it with no drama laid on top.
We are not helpless. This was never a story about being helpless. The giant asteroids, the true world enders are very nearly all found and none of the known ones are coming. We have proven with our own hands that a rock's path can be changed when we see it in time.
The odds that any one place is struck in any one year remain small. And the two missions rising now are built precisely to take the one thing we have always lacked, which is warning, and to hand it to us to turn the silent zero of Chelabinsk into days and the guesswork of the daytime sky into a map. This is not the story of a species standing defenseless under a falling sky. It is the story of a species that finally noticed the gap in its own mirror and set about patiently and at great expense to close it. But it is not closed yet.
The mirror is being built. It is not yet flying. And so until it is, come back one last time to the road because that is where this ends. Tomorrow morning, the sun will come up over your town the way it always has, ordinary and gold.
And the sky will turn that flat, friendly, familiar shade of daytime blue. And it will look to your eye and to every telescope on the ground, completely empty and completely safe. It will look exactly the way the mirror looks in the instant before you drift across the lane.
Somewhere in that blue, in the wedge we still cannot watch. The sky is doing only what it has always done. Quietly and without any malice, minding orbits older than our species. The mirror for the whole planet is being assembled as you listen to this in clean rooms on a schedule by people who have given their careers to it. But until it is finished and flying and turned toward the sun, that one region of the sky stays as dark to us as it has ever been. The next one is already on its way.
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