The war between the PHONE and the BOOK on who owns the HAND is a fierce and contemptuous one
The BOOK murmurs; I maybe old but herein with me, lies innumerable hills of wisdom, I am but from the ancient past, the fulcrum of the elders wisdom is buried in me, come intercourse with me, I will birth you a future beyond tomorrow.
The PHONE noisily goofs; who cares! The whole world is right under my feet, my world is beautiful, ostentatiously decorated with flash and cameras, you define your world here, you can send a bird to tweet, make a tent in the 'ville of Zucker', Snap-ly show yourself on the gram.... All at the push of your thumb. It was deafening.
I, the conveyer of the day was only able to listen, and write you, about this war to judge, because the phone was charging...
In the end, the new wife always win.