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?