I close my eyes and see a playlist. It holds about one hundred songs, though the number remains and will remain undetermined. I’m certain about some songs; I wont forget how “Thieves in the Night” by Hot Chip played as my car farted down Ocean Boulevard, that’s for sure, and the way The Plain White T’s “Rhythm of Love” sounded on that ukulele in the woods melted away any of its cheesiness. But I’m not so sure about others; I thought I could write to Fugazi’s “I’m So Tired,” and enjoyed doing so, but I might have worn it too thin with research listens. And Frou Frou’s “Breath In,” though it makes me grin at each listen, never quite fit on list I made last time I tried to capture it all.

Surely, too, some early me-hits belong in there, but John Fogerty’s “California Blues” just might not be the right version. “Roses” by Outkast too had traction ten years ago, but I would shy away now.

There are also plenty of tracks on the oppo- site end of the spectrum; does the fact that I’ve listened to The Magnetic Fields’ “Papa Was a Rodeo” about 20 times this week fit it into the “Soundtrack of My Life”? How about “Clair de Lune”- am I allowed to pretend that I have actually always liked that?

Which brings up another question – was this playlist set out beforehand? Did these melodies and lines make me myself? Perhaps I go too far, but not too far for dreams — dreams, that is, of blurry metadata and endless durations (an ultimate sort of fadeout).