The apocalypse, as far as I can tell, is not yet upon us. No witchcraft, no enemy action, was responsible for this destruction: the people had brought this on themselves.Īll right, back to 2010.

For a few miserable months, the viscous raw material of its technological trinkets bubbled unstoppably into the ocean, snuffing out the lives of sea creatures as it had stifled the brains of those on land. Meanwhile, the jagged plastic detritus of this society overflowed the city’s garbage cans and landfills. Classrooms that once rang happily with the voices of children performing plays and reciting poetry were now nearly silent, the hush punctuated only by the tapping of little fingers on digital boxes. Doctors were puzzled by a new kind of sickness among their patients, who were afflicted with a form of amnesia that struck whenever they picked up a book, a magazine, or a newspaper: they recognized the object, but they could no longer remember what it was or how to use it. The streets below buzzed with the sound of a million simultaneous conversations, each person clutching a miniature device close to his or her ear, checking in with loved ones near and far to find out who won the game or what was for dinner.Īnd then, one spring, a strange blight crept over the area. Day after day, workers repaired to skyscrapers stacked with single-person cubicles, where they sat for eight, nine, ten hours gazing into glowing screens that were at once portals to the outside world and magical mirrors reflecting their own desires. T here was once a city in the heart of America where all life seemed to be, if not entirely in harmony with its surroundings, then at least functioning in its own kind of equilibrium.

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