Ask when it happened and you will get candidates: 1945, 1969, 1989, 1991, 2007, 2022. Each has an argument. None of them feels like it, because the thing everyone is waiting for is aggregation — the return, the new name, the crossing that resolves — and that is not in the schedule.

Separation happened. It was thorough. It removed the ground, the village, the season, the trade, the death at home, the horizon as a limit on the known, and it did this so completely that within four generations nobody could describe the prior condition without consulting a document.

Then the margin. Then more margin.

There was no bell. There was no threshold moment, no first machine that woke, no morning on which anyone said now we are the next thing, and there will not be one, and the continued waiting for one is the single most reliable way to miss what has already fully occurred.

It is not that we have not arrived. It is that arrival was never the second half of this.

A transition with no terminus is not a transition. It is a habitat.