I like to imagine something dramatic happened. Atco and putt in a secret volcano lair defending their hideout from the authorities. They share a nod and both know there is only one thing they can do and still be good people. They the servers. They let all those millions of words become only memories in the minds of their authors and a small handful of readers. Art is transitory. Nothing escapes the relentless erosion of time. Only ideas remain. And they are are fluid. They confirm to whatever shape civilization makes it conform to. We are transitory, too. All we are is dust In the wind. Until the trumpet sounds and we're not dust anymore.