Wasted Hmv |link| Guide

To be wasted is to be left on the shelf. And now, we are all just browsing ghosts, scrolling endlessly, with nothing in our hands. The dog is gone. The music stopped. And the only thing left to waste is the memory.

That was the waste. The waste of time. The sublime, loitering, pointless waste of time. wasted hmv

Think of the geometry of it. The Saturday afternoon geometry. The orange-and-yellow signage pulling you in like a lighthouse. The metal detectors at the door that beeped aggressively even if you only had a KitKat in your pocket. Inside, it was a cathedral of plastic. Row after row of CD jewel cases, their cellophane shrink-wrap catching the fluorescent light. You went in for one thing—the new single—and emerged two hours later, £40 poorer, holding a live DVD of a band you only sort of liked, a Simpsons mug, and a T-shirt that was two sizes too small. To be wasted is to be left on the shelf

We don’t say we “went to HMV” anymore. We say we “walked past where HMV used to be.” The music stopped