!serif

<i>Witch of Space.</i> What a title. You are the sole caretaker of Earth, the
place to be home all over again to some future civilization, provided you and
your friends can create a safe universe to contain it. You slump on the couch,
alone. You feel you might be the sole keeper of Earth's memory, too. Nobody
will ever see the people, the familes and friends that were on Earth again.
The books and movies in your houses brought into the Medium might be the only
tangible evidence of society remaining; your chat logs, the last of their kind.

You wonder if everyone else feels the way you do. John would be amazed to think
that Con Air might be the work that cinema, nay, society itself was remembered
by, and you laugh a little at the thought.

You choke and don't bother holding back the tear. Con Air is gone.