I’m documenting the fall of something.

I can list the possibilities in order of decreasing precariousness: myself, my company, my country, my planet.

Don’t worry. I expect to outlive this bookstore. Still, anyone who engages in publicly accessible acts of self-expression (i.e., bitching and moaning) crafts their own epitaph.

While my eventual demise is certain (as is yours, fam), I cannot predict the exact moment the economy and/or Amazon will unsheath their steely knives and finally put a stop to our brick-and-mortar shenanigans.

Call the first two neck and neck, Bukowski. I’ll see you at the track.

No matter how much I shake my Magic 8-Ball, the rest remains uncertain. I recently saw someone ponder Disgruntled America, and he concluded that their dismay (and by default, ours) results from the realization they may have to get along with far less than our collective culture has promised.

Chalk it up to my incurable socialism, but I think a few individuals may be hoarding the harvest. Whether or not we redistribute the wealth, though, his sentiment was accurate enough. We’ve been privileged here. Not to say people haven’t struggled, but at least there existed a spirit of advancement. Call it the Promised Land or the American Dream. Now it reveals itself as the Great Lie, and the days approach where getting by is all most people can ever expect.

Yesterday I asked a few friends when they thought it would be time to get offline. “Will we know?” I wondered. “Has the time already passed?”

Their answers were fuckin’ jokes, but I’d asked a silly question. Of course it’s time. It’s time to kick the tires and light the fires, as they say. Once, I was temporarily banned from a certain website for allegedly advocating pyromancy. Therefore, I must include a disclaimer: Any mention of burning or fire should be interpreted figuratively.

Until it shouldn’t.

As for Mother Earth, she’ll probably evict us forcefully before we turn her into Venus. Look at me, all hoping we don’t choke. It would be simpler to murder that devil and accept annihilation, but I can’t stomp hope out. My last thought will be, “No, please.” I guarantee it.

Chronicle this, guys. I’m not talking about little ol’ me. I’ll cry ’til I die, so I’ve got it covered. Chronicle, this. Post, print, perform. Let them pry that smartphone from your cold, dead fingers. Something’s always falling, even if it’s just you, and it’s going to make a helluva story.

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