It could happen as follows. You are perhaps 25 years old, in another 25 years you will be 50, and in that future possibility you will be on a dance-floor, where you will see, dancing in the corner, Marc Jacobs. He is as taut in the face as he is tight and flexible in the limbs. He radiates cheerleader warmth and slutty positivity, while the air wafting from under his tartan skirt is fresh and packed with ozone. You shake your head and calculate his age to be nearly 120, though he moves like a minnow shot out of the egg. He’s had work done, for sure, but a limit has been surpassed. It’s no longer about cosmetic distortions that try to blur the ravages of the years. Instead it’s upgrades, updates, and new hardware so he can just keep looking better and better. And you, a becoming-cadaver, who cannot afford a visit to the hair salon, and who can barely pay the rent on your closet in the metropolis that grants you such dazzling visions: you shall whither and die, pathetically excluded from this glamorous, ex-human world. The above is an It girl’s take on Ray Kurzweil’s coming singularity. For …