It comes every morning, poor thing, looking thinner and thinner. Its plastic raincoat barely covers its meager form as it lies there at the front door, begging to be picked up. Over the past several years it has gone from a robust, healthy creature filled with joy and hope and laughter, to this impoverished and skimpy shell of a being, barely able to hold up its head against the terrible forces arrayed against it. Whatever sustains it, including the hefty price I contribute towards its upkeep and survival, has been steadily diminishing over time. One can see the deterioration, even daily it would seem.
It is very sad.
It is the San Francisco Chronicle, our newspaper.
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