" you’re my sacred ones,” i told the books. “no one but me still cares about you. but i’m going to keep you with me forever. and one day i’ll make you important again.” i thought about that terrible calumny of the new generation: that books smell. and yet, in preparation for the eventual arrival of eunice park, i decided to be safe and sprayed some pine-sol wild flower blast in the vicinity of my tomes, fanning the atomized juices with my hands in the direction of their spines.

— 

gary shteyngart, super sad true love story.

a super sad scary horror story of the future where even road signs are misspelled because everyone relies on electronic devices and no one reads anymore. it would be more amusing if it weren’t so close to the truth.