He was a genius, a master of technology, a wizard of words. He could code, hack, design, and write with ease. He had a successful career, a loving family, and a bright future. He was happy.
Until one day, he woke up and everything changed.
He looked at his phone and saw a jumble of symbols. He turned on the TV and heard a gibberish of sounds. He tried to speak to his wife and kids, but they looked at him with fear and confusion. He realized he had lost his understanding of the written and spoken word.
He panicked. He thought he had a stroke, or a brain tumor, or some rare disease. He rushed to the hospital, but no one could help him. The doctors ran tests, but found nothing wrong. The psychologists tried to communicate, but failed. He was alone in his own mind.
He tried to learn the new language, whatever it was. He studied books, magazines, newspapers, websites, anything he could find. He listened to radio, podcasts, music, anything he could hear. He practiced with his family, friends, colleagues, anyone who would talk to him. He was determined to regain his connection with the world.
But it was useless. Every time he fell asleep and woke up again, the language changed. He had no memory of the previous one, no clue of the next one. He was trapped in an endless cycle of linguistic chaos.
He gradually lost his sanity. He became paranoid, depressed, angry, violent. He alienated his family, friends, colleagues, everyone who cared for him. He quit his job, sold his house, left his town. He wandered the streets, muttering to himself, looking for meaning.
He died alone, in a dark alley, clutching a torn newspaper with incomprehensible words.
