Shoshana Zuboff: Surveillance Capitalism

The Phone on the Nightstand

The light comes before the thought. You reach for it in the dark, before your eyes have fully adjusted, before the first word of the day has formed anywhere inside you, before you have decided whether you are happy or not, whether yesterday still matters, whether today will be different. The phone is already warm in your hand — it has been working through the night, processing, pinging distant servers, updating itself in ways you consented to once, years ago, in a terms-of-service agreement that ran to tens of thousands of words and that no human being was ever genuinely expected to read. In the seconds before your first conscious decision of the day, a transaction has already occurred. You simply weren’t the one who initiated it.

This is not a metaphor. The machine was not waiting for you to wake up — it was running while you slept, and your sleep itself, its duration, its interruptions, the angle at which you set the phone on the nightstand, all of it has been logged somewhere. Not by a person. Not with malice. With something far more difficult to argue against: indifference married to precision.

There is a particular quality to this moment that makes it so resistant to critical thought. It feels like intimacy. The screen carries the faces of people you love, the voices of things that amuse you, the small warm proof that the world continued without you overnight and that you are still, provisionally, connected to it. You are not wrong to feel that. The warmth is real. But warmth and surveillance are not, it turns out, mutually exclusive. They have been engineered to coexist so thoroughly that separating them now feels not just difficult but somehow ungrateful, like refusing a gift from someone who expects something in return and has never said so out loud.

Shoshana Zuboff spent decades trying to name what is happening in that moment. A professor at Harvard Business School for nearly forty years, she had already mapped the transformation of work under digital conditions in her 1988 book In the Age of the Smart Machine, watching factories and offices reorganize themselves around the capacity to render human labor into data. She saw then what most economists and technologists were celebrating as pure efficiency: that every act of digitization is also an act of extraction, that to make a process legible to a machine is to make it controllable, and eventually to make the human being inside that process a variable to be optimized. She was describing workplaces. She did not yet know she was describing your bedroom.

By the time she published The Age of Surveillance Capitalism in 2019, the architecture had moved outside the factory. It had settled into every pocket, every living room, every search bar, every navigation app and fitness tracker and smart speaker and retail website. What she identified — and this is the conceptual move that changed the terms of the debate permanently — is that the core logic of this new economy is not the sale of products or even the sale of data in any simple sense. It is the sale of certainty. Behavioral predictions, manufactured from the raw material of your clicks, your pauses, your rerouted drives, your abandoned shopping carts, your 2 a.m. searches for things you would never say aloud to another person. The product being sold is you — not as a customer, but as a forecast.

And it begins here, in this half-dark, in this reaching before thinking. The transaction happens in the space between sleep and waking, in the neurological gap before the prefrontal cortex has fully come online, before you are, in any meaningful sense, yourself. Someone knew that. Someone designed for it.

Who Is Shoshana Zuboff, and Why She Arrived When She Did

There is a particular kind of intellectual whose most important work arrives late — not because they were slow, but because they were waiting for the world to catch up to what they had already sensed. Shoshana Zuboff is that kind of thinker, and the arc of her career reads less like a curriculum vitae than like a long act of patient preparation for a single, devastating argument.

She came to her ideas through institutions that were themselves contradictions. Trained in philosophy and social psychology at the University of Chicago, then at Harvard, she entered the world of business academia carrying questions that did not belong there — questions about power, about the inner life of workers, about what it means to be human inside a system designed to extract value from you. Harvard Business School, where she would spend decades as a professor, is not a place typically associated with radical critique. It is a place that trains people to run the systems she would eventually indict. Her position there was never comfortable in the way that tenure is supposed to make things comfortable. She was an insider who never stopped looking at the institution from the outside.

Her 1988 book, In the Age of the Smart Machine, was already doing something unusual. She had spent years inside factories and offices, watching what happened to workers when computerization arrived — not as a neutral tool but as a reorganization of who could know what, and therefore of who held power. She saw, before almost anyone else, that information technology was not simply automating tasks but transforming the nature of work itself, splitting the labor force between those who could interpret the new data and those who were rendered legible by it. The book was admired and largely filed away. The world was not ready to hear what it was actually saying.

Then came three decades of accumulation. She continued to teach, to write, to observe. And what she was observing, with the particular patience of someone who had already identified the disease in its early form, was the metastasis. Google was founded in 1998 from a research project that had been partly funded by the National Science Foundation. Facebook launched in 2004 and reached one billion users by 2012. By the time Zuboff began assembling the argument that would become The Age of Surveillance Capitalism, published in January 2019, she was not writing about something that might happen. She was writing about something that had already happened to almost everyone reading her words, whether they knew it or not.

The timing was not accidental, and it was not merely strategic. There is a reason the definitive diagnosis of a disease arrives after the disease has become undeniable. It takes that long to see the full shape of it, to trace the logic from its origins to its consequences without the distortion of hope — the hope that perhaps the technology will correct itself, that perhaps the companies will self-regulate, that perhaps the initial observations are too pessimistic. By 2019, the hope had largely exhausted itself. Cambridge Analytica had happened. The 2016 elections had happened. The sense that something fundamental had shifted in the relationship between private corporations and human behavior was no longer the province of paranoid critics. It had become, however uneasily, common ground.

What Zuboff brought to that common ground was not alarm — alarm was already everywhere — but architecture. A conceptual structure that could explain not just what was happening but why it was structurally inevitable given the incentives that had been allowed to accumulate unchecked. She named the logic. And naming a logic, as anyone who has ever had a therapist finally articulate something they could only feel knows, changes the relationship to it in ways that are irreversible.

The Original Sin: When Google Discovered the Exhaust

There is a moment, familiar to anyone who has ever walked into a room and felt the faint unease of being observed, when you realize the watching began before you arrived. The sensation is not paranoia. It is recognition — the body’s intelligence arriving slightly ahead of the mind’s. You were already inside the frame before you knew there was a frame.

Around 2001, in the specific economic wreckage that followed the collapse of the first dot-com bubble, a group of engineers at a young search company were facing a pressure familiar to any survivor: find a way to generate revenue or disappear. What they found, buried in the operational data their servers had been quietly accumulating, was something that had no name yet. Users searching for things were leaving behind a residue — the precise terms they typed, how long they lingered, what they clicked and what they ignored, where they went next. This residue had been treated as exhaust, as the waste product of the actual service being rendered. Someone understood, with the specific clarity of desperation, that the exhaust was the product.

Shoshana Zuboff, in her 2019 work “The Age of Surveillance Capitalism,” names this discovery with surgical precision. The behavioral data generated by users in the course of using a service exceeded what was needed to improve that service. The excess — what she calls behavioral surplus — could be extracted, analyzed, and sold as predictions about future behavior. Not what you did. What you would do. The shift was tectonic and almost invisible, the way the largest movements always are.

Think of a man sitting in a bright kitchen, filling out an application for something ordinary — insurance, a loyalty card, a neighborhood newsletter. He answers the questions asked of him. He does not know that the questions themselves are a decoy, that the architecture surrounding the form is collecting the things he would never think to mention: the tremor of hesitation before certain answers, the speed of his scrolling, the hour at which he sits in that bright kitchen and what that hour implies about his life. The record exists before he has finished. His awareness of being observed is not only late — it is structurally irrelevant.

This is the original sin Zuboff is describing, and she is deliberate in reaching for that register. Not metaphor, not hyperbole — but something closer to the theological sense of a founding violation, an act that restructures what comes after it by redefining what was always already permitted. The philosopher Hannah Arendt, writing decades earlier about the nature of totalitarian power, observed that the most dangerous transformations are not those announced by proclamation but those that proceed through the quiet redefinition of normalcy. By the time the category exists to name the violation, the violation has become infrastructure.

The logic that emerged from that 2001 discovery was not contained by the company that invented it. It became, as Zuboff meticulously documents, the template — replicated, refined, and universalized across industries that had no obvious connection to internet search. Insurance companies, retail chains, political campaigns, employers. Each of them apprenticed themselves to the same underlying proposition: human experience, rendered as data, is raw material available for extraction without consent, because consent was never built into the architecture. It was an omission so foundational it masqueraded as a natural condition.

There is a particular kind of violence in being observed before you know observation is possible. Not the violence of the blow, but the violence of the already-existing record — the file that precedes the meeting, the profile that precedes the introduction, the prediction that precedes the behavior it claims to merely forecast. What was discovered in that moment of post-crash desperation was not simply a business model. It was a new ontological position for the human being: raw material that walks, searches, and believes itself to be a customer.

Surveillance Capitalism Is Not Capitalism

There is a woman who finds out, not from a confession but from a data export request she almost did not bother to file, that someone has known where she was every day for eleven months. Not approximately. Precisely. The coffee shop where she sat for forty minutes on a Tuesday in February before walking three blocks south and stopping for seven minutes outside a bookstore she did not enter. The hesitation is there in the data. The pause before the door is there. Something she herself had forgotten, something that had passed through her like weather, persisting in a server with more fidelity than her own memory. What unsettles her is not that she was followed. It is that she was read. The difference between those two things is everything.

Shoshana Zuboff insists, with a precision that risks being mistaken for pedantry but is in fact structural urgency, that what we call surveillance capitalism is not capitalism doing what capitalism has always done. This is not an extension of a known logic. It is a mutation, and mutations of sufficient depth produce organisms that no longer belong to the original species. Classical industrial capitalism exploited labor. It extracted value from human bodies in motion, from hands on machines, from hours purchased and converted into goods. The relationship was brutal and legible. Marx called it exploitation because the mechanism was visible enough to name: the worker produces more value than the wage returns, and the difference accumulates upward. There was a transaction, however coerced. There was a thing being taken that the person being taken from at least knew they possessed.

Surveillance capitalism claims something the worker does not know she is giving. Zuboff’s term for the raw material is behavioral surplus — the excess data produced by human experience that goes beyond what is technically necessary to deliver a service. When you search for something and receive a result, the result is the service. Everything else, the hesitation between two searches, the abandoned query, the time of night, the emotional signature embedded in the phrasing, that is the surplus. It is not purchased. It is not negotiated. It is not even, in most cases, noticed. Marx’s concept of primitive accumulation described the original violent dispossession that made capitalism possible — the enclosure of common lands, the conversion of shared resources into private property, the creation of a class of people who owned nothing and therefore had to sell themselves. Zuboff sees surveillance capitalism as enacting a second enclosure, this time of human experience itself. The commons being fenced off is inner life.

This is where Hannah Arendt becomes necessary, and not as decoration. Arendt, writing in 1951 in The Origins of Totalitarianism, identified something that has never stopped being true: that totalitarian systems require the predictability of human beings above all else. The terror, the ideology, the machinery of control, these are instruments in service of a deeper goal, which is the elimination of spontaneity. What makes a person dangerous to a system of total domination is not their resistance but their unpredictability, the fact that they might do something unscripted, something that escapes the model. Zuboff takes this observation and places it inside the architecture of behavioral futures markets, where what is being sold to advertisers and insurers and political campaigns is not your data but your future behavior, predicted with enough confidence to constitute a product. The goal is not to watch you. The goal is to know what you will do before you do it. The goal is to render spontaneity obsolete.

The woman with the data export is disturbed by the pause outside the bookstore because she understands, suddenly, that her hesitation has been converted into a variable. Something that belonged to the unwitnessed interior of her afternoon has become a coordinate in someone else’s model of who she is and what she will do next.

Prediction Products and the Market in Human Futures

There is a moment, ordinary and devastating, when you apply for something — a loan, a policy, a position — and the answer arrives before you have finished explaining yourself. Not a rejection exactly. Something more disquieting: a number, a tier, a category. You are already known. The decision was made in a room you never entered, by a process you cannot audit, based on data you did not know was being collected. You were evaluated before you applied. You were priced before you decided.

This is the operational heart of what Zuboff calls prediction products. Not the record of what you did, but the probabilistic projection of what you will do. The raw material is behavioral surplus — the digital exhaust of your searches, your pauses, your abandoned carts, your 3am scroll — and the product manufactured from it is not a profile but a forecast. A future, rendered actionable and sold.

The logic here has an older ancestor. B.F. Skinner spent decades at Harvard arguing that human behavior, stripped of the mythology of inner life, was simply a pattern of stimulus and response subject to precise prediction and modification. His 1971 book “Beyond Freedom and Dignity” made the argument explicit and brutal: the autonomous individual was a comforting fiction, and the science of behavior could replace that fiction with something more useful. Skinner was largely dismissed as a reductionist, a technologist of the soul who had confused the map for the territory. What surveillance capitalism has achieved is the practical vindication of everything Skinner was mocked for believing — not through ideology but through infrastructure. You do not need to believe that humans are reducible to behavioral patterns. You only need to profit from acting as if they are.

Foucault understood something adjacent but structurally different. In “Discipline and Punish,” published in 1975, he traced the birth of a society organized around the possibility of being watched — the panopticon not as a building but as a condition of consciousness, where the internalization of the gaze becomes its own form of control. The prisoner in the central tower may be empty. It does not matter. Behavior modifies itself under the mere possibility of observation. But Foucault’s architecture was still essentially passive. The warden watched. The system corrected. What Zuboff identifies is something more aggressive: a warden who does not merely watch but predicts, and then sells those predictions to anyone willing to pay for certainty about your future choices.

Consider what this means concretely. A man applies for car insurance and is quoted a premium that seems to bear no relation to his driving history. He has no accidents, no violations. But the algorithm has processed two hundred behavioral signals he never consented to provide — his credit inquiries, his location patterns, the time of day he uses his phone, the stability of his employment inferred from spending data — and it has produced an actuarial sentence. His future has already been priced. He is not being punished for what he did. He is being charged for what the model believes he is likely to do. He exists in the market as a probability, and that probability was sold before he made the call.

This is the asymmetry that Zuboff finds most corrosive. The subject of surveillance capitalism does not experience themselves as a product. They experience themselves as a user, a customer, a citizen making choices. But the transaction that matters has already occurred upstream, in a data center processing behavioral signals into predictive scores, in a marketplace where actuarial certainties are bought and sold like futures contracts on a commodity exchange. You are the commodity. The future being traded is yours. And you remain almost entirely unaware of the auction while you are still, in your own experience, deliberating.

The Instrumentation of Everyday Life

There is a child who has never known silence. Not the silence of being unwatched, of being alone with a thought before it becomes a word, before it becomes a pattern, before it becomes a data point feeding a model that will predict, with increasing accuracy, what she will want next Tuesday, next year, at forty. She was born into a home where the speaker on the kitchen counter listened, where the monitor above her crib measured her breathing and transmitted it, where the thermostat learned the rhythms of the household and adjusted itself accordingly. She did not choose this. No one asked her. She arrived into an environment already instrumented, already harvesting, and her first cry was, in some technical sense, already processed.

This is the third movement in the architecture Zuboff describes, and it is the one that cannot be escaped by closing a browser tab. The digital and the physical have collapsed into each other. The colonization that began in the virtual space of clicks and searches has migrated outward — into the body, into the home, into the street, into the car that learns your braking patterns and sells that data to your insurer before you have time to disagree. Fitness trackers count your steps and your heartbeats and your sleep cycles. Facial recognition systems map the geometry of your face as you walk past a camera mounted at the entrance of a shopping center in Manchester or Chengdu or São Paulo. By 2020, the market for smart home devices had exceeded one hundred billion dollars globally, and the projection curves do not flatten. The sensors multiply. The extraction deepens.

What Zuboff is describing when she uses the phrase behavioral futures markets is not a metaphor. She means it with the precision of a market analyst: your future behavior is the commodity, harvested from your present data, packaged and sold to entities whose interest is not in your flourishing but in the accuracy of their predictions about you. The gap between those two things — your flourishing and the accuracy of predictions about you — is exactly where something essential is being quietly destroyed.

The philosopher Charles Taylor wrote in Sources of the Self, published in 1989, that identity is not a fixed property but a narrative orientation, a sense of where you are going that makes the past coherent. To be a self is to be moving toward something undetermined. The undetermined part is not a bug. It is the entire point. Sartre said it differently and more brutally: existence precedes essence, which means you are not yet what you are, which means the future is the only space where freedom actually lives. What surveillance capitalism does, structurally and systematically, is colonize that space. It does not merely watch you. It forecloses you. It turns the open field of what you might become into a probability distribution, and then it acts on that distribution before you do.

Zuboff calls this the right to the future tense, and when you sit with it long enough it stops feeling like a theoretical construct and starts feeling like something you have already lost and only now have a name for. The right to surprise yourself. The right to be inconsistent. The right to want something you have never wanted before without an algorithm having predicted it three weeks earlier and already served you the advertisement.

The child in the instrumented home will grow up with a digital shadow more detailed than any biographical record in human history. Every fever, every nightmare, every tantrum, every inexplicable joy will have been logged somewhere, processed somewhere, filed into a profile that will follow her into adulthood before she has had the chance to decide who she is. The grief of that is not abstract. It is the grief of a future that has been partially lived on someone else’s terms before it was ever yours to inhabit.

What We Surrendered Without Knowing It Was Ours

There is a moment, and you have lived it, when you reach for your phone before you have decided to. Not because something called to you from it, not because you heard a notification or felt a buzz against your thigh. You reached because the muscle had already moved, because the intention formed somewhere downstream of the hand, and the hand was faster. You looked at the screen before you wanted to look at it. You scrolled before you had a question. And then, half a second later, your mind caught up and manufactured a reason — checking the time, seeing if anyone had written — a reason that arrived after the fact, dressed as a cause.

This is the place Zuboff is pointing toward when she argues that the ambition of surveillance capitalism is not simply to watch you but to become the environment in which you move, so that the shaping of your behavior precedes your awareness of having any behavior to shape. She calls this “actualization power” — the capacity not merely to predict what you will do, but to tune the conditions of your existence until prediction becomes unnecessary because the outcome has already been quietly engineered. The distinction matters enormously, and it is the one most likely to be dismissed as paranoid. It does not feel like coercion. It feels like Tuesday.

Kant, in the Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals published in 1785, placed the capacity for autonomous rational choice at the center of what made a human being an end in themselves rather than a means to another’s purposes. To treat a person as an instrument was not merely rude — it was a violation of the fundamental structure of moral reality. The categorical imperative was not a rule about politeness. It was a description of what respect for personhood required in its most basic form. What surveillance capitalism does, at the level Zuboff is excavating, is not to imprison you or threaten you or even deceive you in ways you could name if pressed. It instrumentalizes you before you wake up. It reshapes the terrain of probable choice so that you arrive at outcomes you experience as your own while the pathway to them has been cleared, narrowed, angled in advance by systems with no interest in your flourishing.

Martin Seligman’s experiments in the late 1960s, which gave psychology the concept of learned helplessness, showed something that still carries a quiet dread. Dogs subjected to inescapable electric shocks did not, when later given the means to escape, use them. They lay down. They had learned, at a level below deliberate thought, that their actions made no difference, and that lesson persisted even when the conditions that had taught it were gone. The discovery mattered beyond the laboratory because it described a psychological mechanism that needed no bars, no locks, no visible enforcement. The cage had been internalized. The incapacity had been trained.

The analogy is uncomfortable precisely because the situations are so different in their visible violence. No one is shocking you. But the architecture of incessant micro-choices that yield no real power, of settings you adjust and permissions you toggle and preferences you believe you hold while they are being continuously re-profiled beneath you — this is its own education in powerlessness. You learn, at the level Seligman was watching, that the gesture of preference does not actually change what happens to you. The screen you see is not the screen someone else sees. The options available to you have been selected by a process that knows more about the statistical version of you than you know about yourself, and your ability to refuse what has not yet been offered is exactly zero.

The hand was already moving. You just thought it was yours.

The Asymmetry We Have Learned to Call Normal

There is a moment, somewhere between waking and checking, when you already know what you will find. Not because you have predicted anything, but because the system has predicted you, and you have begun to inhabit its prediction like a room someone else furnished. The phone was there before you reached for it. The notification arrived before you formulated the desire it was designed to satisfy. You did not choose the morning. The morning was modeled.

This is the asymmetry that has learned to wear the face of convenience. They hold behavioral surplus measured in billions of data points accumulated across years of your movement, your hesitation, your attention and its precise duration. You hold almost nothing in return: a privacy policy written in the passive voice, a terms-of-service agreement no human being has ever read in full, a settings menu that offers the theater of control without its substance. The asymmetry is not incidental. It is the product. As Zuboff argues in “The Age of Surveillance Capitalism,” published in 2019 after nearly a decade of research, the extraction of behavioral data is not a side effect of digital services but their constitutive logic. You are not the customer. You are the mine.

Consider the woman whose daily route was mapped so precisely that a retailer sent coupons for prenatal vitamins before she had told her family she was pregnant. The prediction arrived before the announcement. The system knew the body before the self had finished knowing it. Or the man who discovered that his credit score had been quietly recalibrated not by anything he had done but by the aggregate behavior of people who shopped where he shopped, who drove the routes he drove, who lived in the zip code he lived in. He had been priced by proximity, by inference, by the shadow cast by other people’s choices onto his life. He had no access to the model. He could not interrogate it, contest it, or even fully see it. The asymmetry does not ask permission to enter. It is already inside, sorting.

And the child, the instrumented child growing up inside systems that have logged her sleep patterns, her learning tempo, her moments of frustration and her moments of surrender, who will reach adulthood having generated a behavioral archive that preceded her capacity to consent to its creation. Zuboff invokes Hannah Arendt‘s concept of natality, the idea that each new human being arrives as a beginning, as radical novelty, as the interruption of determinism by freedom. Surveillance capitalism, she argues, is structurally hostile to natality. It wants to close the future before it opens, to replace the radical unpredictability of the human being with a managed probability. The child is trained before she chooses. The trajectory is inscribed before she walks it.

What remains, then, is the question that cannot quite be formulated cleanly, because the difficulty is not merely practical but linguistic. The vocabulary of resistance, of autonomy, of privacy, of the self as a bounded and sovereign entity, was itself assembled in a historical and philosophical context that surveillance capitalism has systematically colonized. The word “choice” now arrives pre-loaded with behavioral architecture. The word “freedom” circulates inside platforms that have modeled what freedom feels like in order to sell its simulation. Even the gesture of refusal, of logging off, of demanding transparency, of reading Zuboff herself, takes place within an attention economy that has already priced the gesture, that has already incorporated the dissident as a behavioral type, that has already built the profile of the person who believes they are outside the profile. The phone on the nightstand, the mapped woman, the priced man, the instrumented child, they do not represent failures of the system but its most complete expressions, and the deepest discomfort Zuboff leaves us with is the possibility that the language we would need to truly name what has happened to us was written, in some essential way, by the thing we are trying to name.

🔍 Power, Control, and the Surveilled Self

Shoshana Zuboff’s surveillance capitalism framework does not emerge in a vacuum: it draws on deep intellectual traditions exploring power, technology, and the colonization of human experience. These related articles trace the philosophical and historical roots of the surveillance society, from dystopian literature to sociological theory.

The Surveillance Society: History and Theory

The surveillance society has a long and complex genealogy that predates the digital age, rooted in bureaucratic control, state monitoring, and the gradual erosion of private life. This article maps the theoretical landscape from Bentham’s Panopticon to Foucault and beyond, offering essential context for understanding Zuboff’s arguments. Grasping this history makes surveillance capitalism legible not as a technological accident but as the latest chapter in an older story of power.

GO TO THE SELECTION: The Surveillance Society: History and Theory

Orwell’s 1984: Big Brother and Total Surveillance

Orwell’s 1984 remains the defining literary imagination of total surveillance, depicting a society where every gesture, word, and thought is potentially monitored by an omnipresent authority. The novel anticipates with uncanny precision many of the mechanisms Zuboff identifies in contemporary data capitalism, from behavioral prediction to the rewriting of reality. Reading Big Brother alongside surveillance capitalism reveals how fiction can function as social prophecy.

GO TO THE SELECTION: Orwell’s 1984: Big Brother and Total Surveillance

Karl Marx and Alienation: Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts

Marx’s concept of alienation—the estrangement of the worker from the product of their labor—finds a startling new resonance in Zuboff’s analysis of how human experience itself becomes a raw material extracted and sold. The Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts provide a foundational vocabulary for understanding what it means to be dispossessed not of goods but of one’s own behavioral data. This connection bridges classical political economy and the critique of digital capitalism.

GO TO THE SELECTION: Karl Marx and Alienation: Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts

Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death: Analysis

Neil Postman‘s diagnosis of a culture narcotized by entertainment and technological spectacle offers a crucial companion to Zuboff’s more structurally focused critique. Where Postman warned against passive amusement, Zuboff reveals the active machinery behind the screen: the invisible architecture that turns attention into profit. Together, these two thinkers form a powerful indictment of the media-technological complex and its effects on democratic life.

GO TO THE SELECTION: Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death: Analysis

Watch Independent Cinema on Indiecinema

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