Most people remember the moment. It is rarely a stranger. It is usually a colleague, a relative, or a friend, mid-conversation. You ask something genuine. They reply with a string of phrases lifted directly from the cultural script — opinions they did not arrive at, attached to a person they no longer fully are. You wait for them to drop the line and speak as themselves. They don't. There is no self underneath the line. The line is the self. The first time it is shocking. By the tenth time it is data. By the hundredth, it is the texture of public life. The Codex does not exist to mock these people. It exists to make sure you do not become one. The drift is gentle, slow, and almost imperceptible from the inside. The only protection is the company of others who are also paying attention.