The overseer was saddened, the setting up of a self-help group for the insane had been a success for decades but the clientele was getting older, arthritic fingers, wanning vision and fading minds were struggling with keyboards, and holding their once intense focus beyond finding the coffee pot.
Sure, there was new blood, BB had found a home to post his delusions, saving countless library goers and welfare queues from his ravings, but the core was rotten, the dilithium crystals were cracked and Scotty was on a bender, the fellowship was lost in labyrinthian tunnels below the misty mountains of regret, confusion and lost house keys.
But the new crazies have other places to go, the bright halls of X and TikTok beckon to those of limited attention span with a tenuous hold on truth, and so the lamps falter here, and the passages once full of light and splendor grow dark, ghosts inhabit the subterranean tunnels, paint peels and fungus takes hold, Khazad-dûm is falling.