Long live the Korg Pa 50. May your downloads be virus-free. May your styles never glitch. And may the "i" never become a zero.

We type "i---" because we have forgotten what we were looking for, but we still remember the feel of the search.

You press the button: Style Change.

I have the machine. I have the fingers. But the rhythm section is missing. The heart has a tempo, but the veins are empty. "I" is the loneliness of a one-man band in a room that has stopped listening.

The em dash. A sudden break. A cut. A knife through the tape of a backing track. This is the moment the arranger keyboard’s metronome drops out. This is the silence between the verse and the chorus of a life.

We type it into the search bar because we believe that the past is still out there, floating in the digital ether. We believe that someone, somewhere, has the Turkish March with Fill 3 and is willing to share it.

The verb of ghosts. A download is a resurrection. A zip file is a sarcophagus. Inside: 127 .SET files. Names like "TR-808_Ballad," "Oriental_Dabke," "Techno_Party_99." You drag them into the folder. You hold your breath. You eject the media.