Plato was on to something when he feared the advent of writing. I’m (somehow) nostalgic for the oral culture necessitated by society’s destruction at the end of Fahrenheit 451. Books have done nothing but isolate and enslave us, offering only illusions of virtue and freedom. Writing is the promise of systematic hierarchy. Recording and publishing our stories and labels gives us a way to make concrete the artifice we build around us. “As it is written,” (if I may quote no one in particular but still give off an air of authority) writing is a sign of education and enlightenment, but it is more a barrier than an entryway. It is a fortress for the privileged, not an open field for humanity. And yet here I am, bemoaning the duplicitous power of writing even as it’s my only recourse.