Crate digging, digging, digging, looking through records that would otherwise have disappeared into collective music memory. The crate digger, a memory preserver, honoring almost-musicians, turning up their volume. Energy doesn't die, just echoes into static. Pay your respects as you search these boneyards, this unrecognizable record, young girl smiling as she imagines a future of riches and fame, wait thats me. Identity, the physical search for artists fruitless and fruitful, is a shadow.

Crate digging of yesteryear. Today I can download sampler packs full folders of forgotten memories. Is identity now as simple as downloading a folder into my brain? So much information and access to information, so much floating in nospace of cyberspace. There, memory is stagnant and immortalized forever, no longer becoming static noise, echoing together in indistinguishable unison. What is the consequence of memory no longer becoming the collective memory of a culture and mankind, but staying individualized, discoverable if you walk down the dim alleys of the internet? What happens to the sewage that usually flows into a filtration system? It floats, it stays afloat, and its no concern of space when space is infinite. Our memory is infinite. Multiplex consciousness is an understatement when the samples can never disappear.

"Mix culture, with its emphasis on exchange and nomadism…" Wandering around aimlessly not knowing my purpose because I am always other. Settle nowhere and for nothing, the epitome of sampling, the epitome of exchange, the epitome of humanity's echoes, collective memory's shadows. But see, so is everyone, they are convinced of home while the truth is they are just as ghostly as me.