They had listened to everything ever uploaded onto the Internet, except Apollo’s 100 TB harddrive full of lute solos and perhaps Yngwie Malmsteen’s discography. They had created word documents about vaporwave — 500,000 words here, 100,000 there — except that they never thought about publishing them. No, never. The texts might wind up in the Library of Babel, or tweeted on the Twitter of Babel, 140 characters at the speed of chocolate fudge. Those texts delve into the garbage pit of history, and, like crime novels, scramble (from the very first sentence, from the very first word) toward a vaguely familiar horror, one that we know or have heard about. But, at least they listened, were listeners, are listeners somewhere, downloading and paying for releases in the language of Bitcoins, so rapidly that at any moment they pull a hard drive from a hamper and, staring at the void, leap.