I stay awake into the small hours, measuring margins and tinkering with code while playing moody records. I remember the night I hit 20,000 words with Miles Davis on the hi-fi. Vinyl sounds better. More importantly, it cements my memories. Each record on my shelf is a snapshot, a photo album. A digital file reminds me of nothing. The value of any collection is not the record sleeve, book, or commemorative spoon, but the memories these things conjure. A certain time of life or seasonal mood. Maybe a grey afternoon. In addition to sense-memory, vinyl demands patience and care. An album ends with silence. It requires a dust-free environment. It’s an impractical format but so are most of the fine things in life.

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Tonight I’m craving the kerchunk of a rewind button and the ritual of scotch-taping the edge of a cassette