cases raze at first you think it's a calculator. one of those solar-powered numbers you used to lean on when you were still in school. then you get a closer look and learn it's a broken cell phone case. it takes a minute for your brain to do the math. the last phone you owned that wasn't tethered to a landline was a no-frills telus blower. it was born more than twenty years ago and lived for maybe half a decade before it died on the bathroom floor of a bar that doesn't exist anymore. the shell this person shed is grey enough to pass for black. the numbers tattooed on its stomach don't mean a thing to you. two hearts have been carved by hand into its spine with a key or the tip of a blade. one sits on top of the other. they're not the same size. they don't belong to the same person. you'd ask yourself how someone could throw away something they gave that much of themselves to, but you already know the answer. 240303 what's it to you? who go blather from