Jules, Jim et Clamshell

I love you, my little Clamshell. You lie on my lap and purr as I read and write, surf and peruse. You snuggle up with me in bed and we laugh together at little caricatures of GW with big ears and cowboy boots. You have been my devoted Tonto on the Plains of my wonton Desires, Yearnings and even flighty Passions. You have always been there, little Clamshell. It pains me, then, to inform you that you are indeed getting old, my little thing. You are a relic in the days of microprocessors that don’t whirr and buzz—they only sit there and compute without soul. You always computed your computing with feeling, with viv, vim, vigor, my little Clamshell. It’s just that, well...how does one say...you are so very slow, my little Clamshell. And with every passing day, you are getting slower as those giants of soulless computation streak past us on the Autobahn of numbers, as I, with a smile in hand, putt along with you in our electronic, poetic, aesthetic...Pacer.

Oh, God, please heal Chris of his new Philip Glass obsession. I go through my days now, with an underpinning of non-descript sounds, filling me with déjà vu from moment to moment, giving my daily chores that half-lit, somehow profound feeling like being in a bad Truffault film (were there any?) Does toilet scrubbing have to sound so meaningful?