It's well past midnight on a rainy evening in a northern English town. I'm looking out the window, three storeys up, staring at two tea chests standing forlorn beneath a blackened sky. There's a couple arguing outside a bar in the street outside, but I'm not diverted from my gaze. Inside of those two wooden boxes is a part of me, a whole lot of memories and a piece of history. My grief is silent but real, an aching heart. I take a drag on a cigarette and shut the window. As I close the blinds, I whisper to myself "be strong". My girlfriend says "the great thing about the dead, is that they make space!". I try to ignore the flippant quoting, turn to my iPad and realise that, probably, only those DC fans on Dreamcast-talk will understand my loss.

So here I am. It was an argument over space. I lost. Six of my Dreamcast's are gone. The end.