Books. And magazines, pamphlets, catalogues. Newspapers.
And letters. Typed letters. Hand-written letters. Telegrams.
Printed greeting cards in the mail. Postcards sent. Stacks of photographs, shuffled through.
All these have become thin images on a screen. Chemical and phantom.
A finger's tap may call them forth. But our touch can never meet, never know that other existence, a reality of shape and texture and ink.
Our words, our thoughts and memories are only in our eyes and minds, now. When they used to be in our hands, as well.