Overview

Once upon a Saturday morning, the world glowed in phosphor and sugar. Children rose at dawn, clutching cereal boxes like sacred texts, as TV stations hummed to life with trumpets, lasers, and laughter. The cartoons came, one after another, each its own improbable universe: robots, pirates, bears, bunnies, brain-in-a-jar villains. They were vivid, noisy, and alive. And then-somewhere between a commercial break and the next decade-they disappeared. Animation, as it turns out, is the most mortal of immortal arts. It can outlive its creators, but not always its paperwork. Whole universes vanish not through catastrophe, but through corporate indifference, technological decay, and the quiet hiss of magnetic tape demagnetizing in a storage room. A thousand hours of artistry can vanish because someone mislabeled a box. You'd think a medium built frame by frame would remember itself better.

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