Requiem for a Walkman.　-Afternoon on the Islands of Langerhans-　Haruki Murakami

　　　I have decided to buy a new Walkman because the one I have been using for the past four years is starting to act up. Although I say "four years," in my case, I use it every morning when I go running, strapping it to my arm with a supporter. So, the wear and tear on my Walkman is probably much more severe than that of the average person. To be more precise, it should be called a "Run-man" instead of a Walkman. Nevertheless, I think it did a good job for four years, without any complaints, getting soaked in sweat, rain, and shaken, and even hitting the concrete pavement. It's such a precious machine that I would want to have it enshrined in a temple for machines, even if it was only a Walkman memorial. They could give it a posthumous name like "Murakami Jogging Musician." The second-generation Walkman that I bought at the audio shop is much smaller and lighter than the first, and even has an auto-reverse mechanism and can be charged. It's also cheaper than the first one. I'm not exactly overwhelmed with emotion, but I'm certainly impressed when I think about how much a single machine has progressed in just four years. However, at the same time, I can't help but wonder if the Walkman really needed to progress that much. Sure, I have no objections to the fact that a machine can become cheaper, smaller, and more convenient, but when I stare at the retired first-generation Walkman, I can't help but think, "It wasn't really inconvenient to use it the way it was, even if it didn't progress." But when I start thinking like that, I begin to feel that perhaps the first 90% of progress in the world isn't really necessary, so maybe it's a bad way of thinking. In any case, rest in peace, Sony Walkman WMI.