FOUND FOLIOS

Before everyone died, I was a writer. More specifically, I did copy; the editing and creating of text for campaigns, the slogans for sales.

Copywriting skills may now be useless, but writing itself is not. Writing is everywhere, and incredibly personal. It has to be, because who’s going to read it? We’ve gone from a market rife with over-accessibility and chaff for publishers to dig through, to a non-existent market. The idea of creating books to be bound then bought is as dead as the bookmakers and booksellers; the souls left are too busy making sure they survive to the next night, or day, or generation.

Part of that survival is how writing has been renewed from the ashes. In such a lonely world, people have begun writing in all kinds of ways. A pen, or burnt stick, is put to paper with incredible frequency. Letters that will never be sent, lists to ensure needs are met, journals for retaining some level of sanity. Everybody is writing. It’s one of, if not the only solace, to our current situation. Writing to yourself feels good, and that’s a rare feeling to be had.

I figured somebody should begin cataloguing and publishing these new pieces of writing. The following is a series of these Found Folios — pieces of writing that I’ve came across while meandering through a dead planet. In order to preserve some of my own sanity, I will arrange them into a series of thematic issues, accompanied by my commentary.

It is my hope that one day, these are to be published.

The Curator