Without access to information, we stand to be a society foundering in a sea of ignorance.
We sat around the bar table the other night, feasting on wings and beer, commiserating with our brother who had just lost his job.
He was a number to a man who didn't know his name and had probably never read one of his stories.
I am familiar. It happened to me not quite three years ago.
There we sat, as our brother fought back tears, promising to land in the business somewhere.
We are surrounded by media. TV, radio, internet news sites, billboards screaming messages at us ...
It is the ink-stained wretches, the scribes, the penmen whose jobs are dropping like flies in a cloud of Raid.
Where do they turn?
There may come a day when we no longer have a newspaper to hold in one hand, a coffee in the other.
Future journalists may never know the joy of hearing those turbines chug into gear for the first run, the thrill of tearing down the stairs and yelling 'STOP THE PRESS!'
And as we were on our second or third to last call of the night, the late guy came into the bar with a copy of Final ... one for each of us.
I smelled the fresh ink and felt the grit of the ink on my fingertips ... for the first time in three years, and maybe for the last time ever.
And it was my turn to fight back tears.