From the chipped shell of an old phone juts a damp cursor-mouth: every tap on the keypad leaves a thin film of saliva on the numbers, as if messages are meant to be swallowed, not sent. A hand used to endless scrolling now has to squeeze into a rubber interface, while the screen obediently cycles through faint prompts — “RUN / BUY / TRY” — slashed over with sudden bursts of light. The longer you hold the device, the more it condenses into an essential item — like a discount on touch that lasts only until your fingers can no longer tell where plastic ends and skin begins. You hold on until the warmth fades, and what’s left is the dry echo of wet digits, and a faint sense of a clearance sale where the product was the gesture itself: “I want to refresh the feed.” Solar.w