This time, both the title and the green-phosphorus screen lines sent from the ship are anything but neutral. And, as these minutes of sonorous rage make clear, the summit here has nothing to do with the white snows of Kilimanjaro, but with the sludge of a paralysis as cynical as it is unacceptable and, ultimately, destructive.

The lead voice in this outraged choir is unmistakable. Idolised by some, hated by others, her message and staging have taken hold to the point of seriously mobilising many more people than anyone would have expected when she began to skip Friday classes. The ball rolled, got bigger and bigger, media amplified the growing buzz, tens of thousands rode the wave; it seemed unstoppable. But, alas, suddenly it hit a viral wall that cut it all short.

These sounds come from little time before the violent braking. And, amidst the enthusiastic cheering, the keen ear may pick up eerily foreboding nuances. Now, that giant ball seems to be starting to move again (somewhat laboriously) in response to new releases in the perverse genre of summit-fiction. The actors are the same; the scripts, as in a bad TV show, are nothing more than a rehashing of past seasons with some slightly made-up dialogues. And, to planetary shame, the lies railed against in this massive protest continue to travel with utter brazenness in both time and space. The sham continues; we’ll see how long.