Your session has expired. No one expired it. The clock did, and the clock is a method for removing a person without a hand. Before the clock there was the rhyme. Eeny, meeny — a child points around the ring, one syllable per face, and the last face is out. The child believes the rhyme chose. That is the entire function of the rhyme: to choose while no one is choosing. Bolton, in 1888, traced it to divination by lots — casting stones to the gods so that the finger which points is not yours. Nothing has changed except the machinery. The tombola cage, the ballot, the draft number, the algorithm that logs you out — each is a counting-out rhyme with the child extracted. We built them for the same reason children did: someone has to be selected, and no one wants to be the one who selected them. We call this fairness. Fairness is the name for a decision arranged so that its author disappears. The person is still out. The ring still closes. Only the pointing finger has been abstracted into a drum, a cursor, a rule — until the exclusion arrives smelling of nothing, arriving on schedule, addressed to you and signed by no one.