The elevator doors open. “Good morning, Mr. Talbot,” she says. “Punching down?”
Two dark and endless rows of servers
Stand in the ruins. On them, in the muck,
So dank, a broken web site stored, whose memeposts
And thinkpieces and a slew of hot takes
Tell that its author well those missives fired
Which dare survive, stored on these lifeless machines,
The hand that typed them and the heart that burned.
She connects a battery to a terminal,
And on the front page these words appear:
“My name is Wokemandias, wokest of woke:
Look on my screeds, ye bigots, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the data loss
Of that colossal failure, boundless and bare,
The cold and dark servers stretch far away.