In the cold meat grinder of any system, be it the chrome-plated monstrosity of a corporation or the byzantine labyrinth of bureaucracy (both tentacles of the same squirming control machine), glitches inevitably erupt. These are the burps and hiccups in the program, the malfunctions in the meat. They can erupt with all the messy glory of a runaway digestive system, spewing forth spectacular accidents that leave you reeling in the stench of chaos.

Here’s the rub: how do we identify these glitches in the matrix? Are they mere blips on the screen, easily dismissed by the suits at the control panel? Or are they harbingers of a system meltdown, a full-on Burroughs-ian cut-up waiting to happen?

Then comes the dance with the gremlins. How do we address these exceptions? Patch the program? Throw a bucket of bolts at the malfunctioning machine? Or is there some deeper, more primal ritual required, some offering to the machine gods to appease their circuits?

But the real meat of the matter, the question that hangs thick in the air like the stink of fear, is this: who holds the power? Who gets to make the call when the system shits the bed? Who has the authority to yank the plug, rewrite the code, or sacrifice a goat to the malfunctioning server?

This, my friend, is where the ghost of Carl Schmitt slithers in, that old authoritarian bastard. He whispers in your ear, his voice a chilling binary code: “Who is sovereign?” In the face of glitches and exceptions, who gets to decide the fate of the system? Is it the button-pushing drones, forever locked in their bureaucratic trance? Or is there a higher power, a hidden hand that pulls the strings and dictates the course of action?

The answer, my friend, is as murky as the oil slick that coats the gears of any system. The search for the sovereign, the one with the final say, is a never-ending chase through the labyrinthine corridors of power. Just remember, in the game of automation, there’s always a ghost in the machine, waiting to remind you who’s really in control.