Sometimes minor transitions are palpable, sometimes unnoticed. The evidence is stacking—the derelict PlayStation and Xbox 360 on my shelf, my PSP long loaned out, and the aging PC sitting next to me. Games no longer play an important role in my life—I neither play nor build them anymore. Is it a shift in interest to things more serious or worthwhile, a simple lack of interest in games or is it a lack of interest in perceived purposelessness? Does every moment spent need a goal? I’m not sure. Part of me is sad, part of me is relieved at the honest assessment, or at least the exploration.

Thinking about the role possessions play, the reasons for their existence. This PC, built specifically to code first-person shooters two generations—eons—ago. Today it sits mutely next to a desk, barely deep enough to stay my laptop, where most of my work is done. This bicycle, built to cross Japan, now hanging from the railing. Turntables, a milestone at 24, mixer and Ortofon needles a coming-of-age, also mute, subservient to Ableton and trick USB audio devices, coughing dust next to decade-old vinyl. This house, rented because it had allowed dogs and had parking and a beautiful kitchen. Now the kitchen is the only thing that’s relevant.

Do I hate stuff, and love space? I know I’d rather fill this space with joy and friends than another anonymous electronic box.