Numbers are slipping, people.

I will say, in the boardroom of my head, full of corrupt men in suits with ulterior motives and sordid past-times. There will be charts, a projector, maybe a white board (plus oh my god how do I subconsciously type "whore" instead of "white"?) and they will nod and go hmm and argue amiably, with tones that have that razor edge.
"Post count has decreased dramatically, sir" an underling will say to the man at the end of the table, who is of average height, maybe a little portly, who is greying and with down turned skin at the corners of his mouth, so he is in a perpetual grimace unless he makes an effort. His countenance is one of thoughtful consideration and deep pondering; not of anything profound, but just for how much he stands to lose. He is a deeply selfish man, only superficially a business man, and his dedication to the former is directly proportionate to his greed. He does not spend late hours in his office doing paperwork. He has others to do that for him, but his wife doesn't know that, and even though she is young and attractive, he will still be fucking someone else, be they hooker, employee or independent, just because they will not be his wife and that is all he needs. Not-wife. The beautiful auburn back-of-the-head and long white back of a Not-Wife. The slender ankles of a Not-Wife, or the pert breasts or long fingers wrapped around his less than impressive length or the smattering of lovely coffee freckles of a Not-Wife.
Maybe just someone you don't look across at at the dinner table Not-Wife.
He makes amends in his mind for his Not-Wife by letting his Wife rule the house, savage the credit cards, and lavish with gifts. She probably knows but like her husband, she is deeply selfish and only superficially a wife, and her discontent at an unfaithful spouse is directly proportional to the satisfaction she gets from material objects his means buy her.
Water under the bridge.
He keeps Wife happy. Not-Wife keeps him happy (distracted) and he also keeps Not-Wife happy with hush money and elegant gifts from international bank accounts that she can never ever ever wear to work.
All this will run through his mind as he sits at that board room table and ponders with his drooping, down turned face, his clasped hands, as the falls in daily posting could be catastrophically detrimental to his life-style, his Wife's happiness and his Not-Wife's silence.
It is a rare man who will not eventually use his wealth, ill-gained or not, as a means to their less than innocuous ends. With each of our hidden socially taboo and "wrong" delights and indulgences, money can buy anything.
Endangered animals? Check.
Endangered animal soup? Check.
Surgeries? Check.
Child slaves/prostitutes? Check.
Every other exotic fetish? Check.
A huge jumpy castle? Check.
It's not a character fault, it's human nature. We take what we want once we have the means to gain it. It used to be that we got skills or weapons or numbers and took what we wanted. Since we've imposed many systems, be they barter or currency, we're just inviting it. So paedophilia becomes for the economically elite, and has probably been a motivator for some of them. Just because now they're paying maybe hundreds of thousands or millions to have sex with that frail girl-child doesn't mean anything has changed from when they pay herds of cattle and blocks of land and serfs and whatnot for a go at that small, slight thing.
And he, this corporate head, knows this of the men and women around him. They all have their hidden desires and this is the means to their ends. They all have greed and lust and gluttony and revenge and over compensation. But as long as they do their jobs, he won't care.
But obviously they haven't.
A thin, gangly man stands at the front, with a pointer and a remote, highlighting areas on graphs and rattling off figures and percentages and differences.
"... since September 8th there has been a gradual decline in frequency and quantity of posts, and despite estimations on September 9th, the quality did not increase significantly..."
He starts to feel himself sweat, that big man does. Big man, big suit, big business. The thoughts of debt and bankruptcy and his Wife and Not-Wife trickle down his forehead. ohshitohshitohshit.
"... and song posts have faltered, and image posts have been on the rise, and they are neither clever nor insightful or with any clear point other than an excuse to post pictures from Google..."
There was a frantic buzz of low, mingling mutterings and conversations, and some exclamations of shock or woe.
No one turned to him. He was not asked in panic what he felt or thought and his voice did not join the drone and he sat, stagnant and with down turned corners and rivulets of sweat heading south of his hairline, his hands clasped over one another in front of him.
A big man in a big suit for a big business in a big building with big conference rooms full of no one that asked him.
The lanky man spoke up over the hum; "If we divert energy to encouraging introspective thinking, mental instability and failing that, irresponsible promiscuity, we could increase our post output by three times, but at a possible risk of degrading the establishment's overall longevity, but our shareholders agree that if we encourage more posts with somewhat detrimental behaviour, the establishment will right is imbalance and posts will continue consistently and with an increased frequency."
A low, unanimous sigh was sighed by all, but the big man. Inwardly, his eyes rolled back in his head and he may have let out a little breath, but that was all. He pondered on the fragility of maintaining his life-style, and that of his Wife and Not-Wife. How close he came every day to complete and utter annihilation because of it. How dangerous it was, and the stress these risks did to his health.
All this buzzed in his mind, tossing and turning fervently like caged animal, but his face was droopy, still, and even though there was a relief to his eyes, there was no obvious change to his expression, posture or external being. He was an introspective, introverted man, with an exoskeleton, one that was black, finely tailored for a portly gentleman, with silver buttons with delicate filigree vines, double-breasted, soft moss green silk inside, with a white shirt and smart olive tie. Inside, there was a new suit, and tonight he would shed his shell, and lie with his Not-Wife, and later, would shed his shell again and lie with his Wife and overnight he would have grown a new exoskeleton, with a red tie and pin-stripes.
Enthusiastic board members animatedly proposed any and every idea to maintain their positions and thus their lifestyles, and a very deeply selfish and only superficially business ManInsect clasped his hands and clicked his mandibles, and soft wings shifted and rustled under his double-breasted black (and green silk and with silver vine filigree buttons) exoskeleton.

so does this count as a post?