It may be an illusion. It may be my eyes. There was a day when one could watch all the movies ever published. Civilization moves ever more quickly. The library increases in time, yes, but media production marches like a quicksilver landslide. It's a different world the morning more pages are written than I could ever read.
But there's always a higher view. Abstraction, searches and sort, filter me thousands into a handful of brain, a teaspoon of memory. A solution in one page that obsoletes ten. A simpler way of life, built on the complexity of lives I'll never know.
Taste, swallow, suck it down, this fractal cordial. Have you read your friends page today? How much can you take, how many can you hold? There's time to write and time to read, an arbitrary line drawn. Filters upon filters, an endless spiral, seeing is the art.