You want to know where the news went? It didn’t die of old age. It was murdered. Strangled in a clean, quiet room by men in suits who wouldn’t know a story if it held a gun to their head.
I remember when the news had a smell. It smelled of wet ink and cheap paper, and the guy selling it on the corner who hadn’t had a bath in a week. It was a product. A real thing. You held it in your hands. It cost a nickel, maybe a quarter, and for that coin, we had to give you something. A fire. A murder. A horse that was a sure thing at Aqueduct. A politician with his hand so deep in the cookie jar he came out with crumbs up to his elbow.
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