21

It's as if a warm evening has suddenly been replaced by the emptiness of a switched-off screen. The light seems to still be on, but it no longer gives off any warmth. Dreams fall away like paper stars from old posters, and all that remains is sound - pulsating, hot, like the breath of time itself. There is a slight longing for twenty-one, and bitter irony: the best that remains is stored in the phone's memory. But there is still heat in these ashes - the very ‘heat’ that prevents them from cooling down completely.