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【迷惑メール】Amazonプライムの自動更新設定を解除いたしました

こんな迷惑メールが届きました。

 From: Amazon <contact@sxgal.cn>

日付: 2021/01/25 19:00
件名: Amazonプライムの自動更新設定を解除いたしました

クレジットカード情報の更新、追加などにつきまして、以下の手順をご確認ください。アカウントサービスからAmazon情報を管理するページにアクセスして、更新してください。

また、Amazonプライム期間が終了したら、 お急ぎ便無料 や プライム・ビデオ見放題 などのプライム会員特典のご利用ができなくなります。(主なプライム会員特典を確認するには こちらをクリックしてください)。早めにお手続きの程よろしくお願い致します

継続してプライム会員特典をお楽しみいただきたい場合は、「Amazonプライム会員情報の管理」ページにて「会員資格を継続する」 をクリックしてください。

■会員情報の管理ページで確認■

なお、72時間以内にご確認がない場合、誠に申し訳ございません、お客様の安全の為、アカウントの利用制限をさせていただきますので、予めご了承ください。

アカウントに登録のEメールアドレスにアクセスできない場合お問い合わせ: Amazonカスタマーサービス

Amazonサービスをご利用いただき、ありがとうございました。

In Houston and a handful of other cities and states, the pandemic has pushed the criminal legal system to reimagine itself a bit, delivering services in ways that might have seemed unthinkable a year ago, from outdoor vocational programs to art classes via Google Hangouts. These are cutting-edge changes that have been a lifeline for incarcerated people craving contact with their families and opportunities to better themselves. But they come with risk: Families of prisoners fear corrections officials will use the technology to replace in-person interactions even after the pandemic ends. As someone who’s been through the system and understands its limitations, I know how remarkable some of these changes are. For as long as prisons and jails have existed, living in them has meant coming to terms with loss: the loss of freedom, the loss of chances in life, the loss of friends and family. At a time when you’re hoping to reinvent yourself and your life, the ties that bind you to the free world can feel so tenuous, especially in the face of major milestones — events that keep happening, with or without you. A few weeks after I was arrested on drug charges in upstate New York in 2010, I remember watching another prisoner get the news that one of her family members had died. She was only a few weeks from going home and seemed almost disoriented by the news. But she was one of the lucky ones: She got to go to one hour of the funeral in person, shackled and under guard. Most of the time that doesn’t happen — the funeral is too far, the prisoner doesn’t qualify, or the facility doesn’t allow it. The rest of us knew we would have to rethink what loss looked like while we were in jail. Now, amid all the sickness and suffering of the past year, it’s the jails and prisons that are doing the rethinking — or at least some of them are.