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The fact that the internet reliably breaks and disintegrates and swallows your memories means the act of stumbling upon something that remains feels unexpectedly human, as if you sifted this version of yourself from sand with other ancient artifacts. If this was an archeological dig, I’d gingerly lift this part of me from its resting place and find somewhere, like a museum or attic, to preserve it. Instead, all I can do is rebury it and hope it remains there for me to stumble upon again in a few years, surrounded by an entirely new internet.

The internet that disappears
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