An Unbearable Factness of Being

Everyone in the office knew that the perfect informational rhythm of the Polystyrene had come swerving into a five-car pileup of a halt when they heard Editor-In-Chief Grosby shouting from his office, with ear-mutilating finality: “UNPUBLISH THAT BITCH.” In the mind of any other human being a series of questions might arise, such as which “bitch” should be unpublished and why the terse nomenclature was required. But the Polystyrene was a journalistic vessel no longer piloted by humans but by biological automation. Somewhere in the building, a journalist trained to exclusively communicate in howls and exclusively navigate by echos rammed its hand unto a keyboard, and all offending material was now so much nuclear waste, piled under a man-made mountain.

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