The fifth floor of a grey office building. It's a grey day and with the annoying rain I almost missed the place. Up here it's odd. Very bright and clean, some might call it antiseptic. Imagine a white glossy room with a white clossy service desk, a white leather couch and coffee with too much whitener in it. Everything is arranged in a right angle and all the people in the waiting area look super uncomfortable.
After half an hour one of the clerks comes up to me, his hands folded in front of his stomach. I'm very sorry, he says, there's nothing we could do. We tried everything, but age is a brutal thing, unforgiving. I'm very sorry. He hands me back my phone and explains to me why the display is irreparably lost. And I learn that so is my contact list. I understand, I say. You did everything you could.
Thursday night is when it happened. It worked fine until I was at dinner, worked fine for eight years. I received a text message, slid the thing open to read it and boom, it went dark. I tried once more and was looking at a colourful Paul Smith stripe pattern. I tried again and it's been black ever since. Sigh. Waiting for the elevator I realize that I'm fucked. The door opens and I walk into the rain.
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