2084

Lamb was pecking away on oldschool keys when Lion burst in just to see what condition lamb’s condition was in. “Twit me a rhyme” said Lion to Lamb, “. . . and I’ll tell you what time it is.” “It’s aspidastra time,” said Lamb. “and I wouldn’t give you a dime for your tweetish stream; it’s nothing more than a digital dream.” “You need to get with the plan” Lion bellowed, as Lamb’s pages yellowed.

“Delete your yellowing pages and those ancient literary ages. We’ve got new phases coming your way, at the speed of light, packing more digital might than a army of oldschool volumes. Turn up the volume and you shall see, there is more time for me than for thee. Your tattering volumes are destined for bonfire ire, kindled by foxes who run with their tails on fire until they quench the flames with video games.” “Ding dong the bookspine stitch is dead, to be replaced by twitts instead.”

“Four square and 300 years ago our forefathers brought forth upon this world a new nation, conceived in literacy,” Lamb rebutted, while Lion on his fairy mainframe strutted. “Watch out for Big Bubba,” Lamb bleated, as his blood ran out. But Lion was distracted, his algorithms focused on the latest tweet. “It’s time to eat.” said he, with insta-glee. Smoke