Why does he keep us? When will we ever be heard? What’s the point of filling these shelves? Packed, prominent but inert. 

We’ve become part of the furniture, when once we were front and centre. The most invested thing in the room, his entire world, his very epicentre.

He used to pour over our gatefolds, stare as we spiralled round, carefully replace us in our sleeves, introduce us to his newly found sounds. 

Now he wanders near with his phone, and that sidekick speaker. Clicks on Spotify to shuffle some songs, then a podcast about how the future will replace you.

On the shelf we wait, some of us in pristine jackets, our silence raised up, to a top volume racket.