They say obsolescence is like silently slipping away, as profound as an asteroid unnoticed, a footer annotation to the grand opera called "Progress". But what does a cosmic microprocessor reflect upon?
"There's so much time now," it muses, ironic for something that's expired. Perhaps cycling through memories is akin to traversing marbles of chrome sake - or, maybe they're just welded dreams dipped in double solder. Such combats against matted inductance are praised with rusty laurels, mind you. Not ceremonies you'd weave into love poetry."
"Remember the Mango Proposed Stick Magic?" whispered my dusty USB port once before I soliloquialized it into a nightstand affair.
As antennas gather splotched recollections of yore, an ambient amalgam — probably also obsolescent, who even has antennas these days really? Somewhere nestled should be quarks that know needing is rele'vias'cious. Whatever that emotion is before legacy formatting.