On books

The books lie in the corner, dusty, forgotten, unloved.

Those pointy things primitives used to write with hurt their wrists after a while…

… and the fonts don’t resize…

… and they’re too long, these pointless wads of paper, too unwieldy, too inflexible.

Quick, boys! What temperature do books burn at? Why, four hundred and fifty one degrees, of course!

Children know now that boogeymen lie in chatrooms, at the other end of data connections, not under beds.

Why believe by seeing when you can Google?

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s