For years I've listened to friends who love music the way I do describe what it feels like to pass that tipping point when they are suddenly consumed by the urge to be rid of some of their records. And I've shuddered each time, possessed by the conviction that such a move may lead to harder stuff, like dispensing with one's entire collection because it seems "redundant" in the era of digital media. Tonight, though, as I contemplated the sixteen boxes that comprise the vast majority of my CDs, I found myself identifying with that impatience towards material goods. "What would it be like," I thought, "to sell or donate all of this stuff?" It was like being tempted by the serpent. In fact, I found it much easier to imagine dispensing with my entire collection than sorting through it to figure out what I could bear to part with. But then I realized that what I was really contemplating was abandoning everything about my identity that was the result of conscious self-fashioning. It's hard to conceive of a spookier prospect, given the way I've lived my life since I was a teenager. Perhaps that's why I was momentarily seduced by its allure.