I am downloading the James Blake album.
Digital kilobytes of James Blake are swooshing into my memory like recalled jokes or déjà vu.
James Blake is now sitting inside my machine, next to my Yorkshire holiday photos, discarded Ableton sessions and my Justin Biebpipe love poetry.
Listening to this album will be like a thousand swan feathers brushing my cheek in the breeze from the breath of a million angels.
Pressing play on track one will be like the tentative moment before a teenage kiss, that giddy feeling of nascent love-- oh hold on, the computer's crashed. Let me just press restart.
Sorry about this. It takes a while to reboot. Full of viruses, this thing.
So then. Done anything interesting recently? Oh, here we go. Let me just find the mp3s again.
Oh great, it's lost them. Thanks, computer, you galoofing mess of catastrophic circuitry. You've ruined everything.
I don't want to listen to the James Blake album now. That would be like listening to the wails of whales speared in a bloody sea. Like the last sighs of a cherubim skewered on a cackling devil's pitchfork.
Kilobytes of James Blake lie dead in my computer, exhausted sonic sperm on the sidelines of my digital tubes.