Apple Chapel

In the Atrium of iPads all the golden rectangles pulse with the life I seek for my old MacBook. I see it, don't hear it: wax dumps of each ear canal are thick with the blended oils of Earex. Arachis, almond, camphor. Smelling of mothballs then, I open my case on the problem desk. The grub of my screen, all the dirt of the faithful machine, it is hilarious in here. Even clean, the specs are laughable. I run a finger over the fault line that is held together by tape and a sticker from a Thornton's chocolate. The assistant in his saintly blue t seems genuinely, gently amused. I am too fond of my laptop to be embarrassed anyway. We try a new charger and Everything Lights Up. For a power lead, ouch, yes, that's pricey: but for a live machine and for the union of the internet, oh, yes, a pittance.


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