The air outside the Apple store was putrid with the stench of rotting fish, a sign of the unutterable hideousness of the events unfolding within the glass-fronted mausoleum. It was within there that I discovered the fate of once Portuguese chanteuse, I later learned her name to be Nelly Furtado, and the nauseating scenes being conduced by Apple Geniuses for the entertainment of the assembled crowd. For there she was, inside the device, by what ungodly power I know not, her hands open against the screen, how could this be so, surely my mind was conveying a fiction such that she were trapped inside it, unable to escape her anodised metal enclosure hell.
She scratches and paws at the touch screen, her desperation mounting at the realisation and suffocating sense of horror, the confines of her sleek 8mm thin prison press hard against her modest bosom, the overlay and pressure-sensitive component of which is manufactured by German glass specialists Balda, no doubt innovating by employing inhumane research experiments such as we see above.There is no further news on Nelly Furtado, we can only speculate as to whether she experienced the horrific negative blacks that so many desperate early-adopting souls have, her final moments rendered slightly askew to the viewer desperately tilting their screen in a futile hope of aligning the viewing angle hopelessly ignorant to the fundamental production issue as Cthulu transmogrifies into her dimension, taking her for His own, no man or Timbaland daring to halt his unspeakable advances.
