The hiss of tape

So it's pure laziness that compels me to reach for a mobile device and not the record in the tattered sleeve. Both are within arm's reach, mind you.

In some newfangled music streaming app, a favorite song is searched for and then selected. There is buffering, much buffering; the pops and crackles of a silently spinning record have been replaced by a progress bar and a percentage counter. (Try and guess which one is better at building anticipation.)

It's only karmic and fitting and whatnot that just as the song reaches its emotional apex and I have been whisked away to the distinctive place that only this song can bring me, the music suddenly stops. Streamus interruptus. A popup message stares back at me: my mobile device only has 20% battery left.

There are other ways, other formats, better outcomes. There is a cassette tape in my pocket—and it can go all night.