About a decade ago I found a locked file cabinet at work that someone still had a key for. It must not have been opened since the nineties and was a veritable time capsule. Among a huge supply of stationery supplies no one ever uses anymore—letterhead, typewriter ribbons, colored pencils, white out, a huge variety of post it notes in all sorts of hues—was an electric pencil sharpener. It must have been at least thirty years old. I’d forgotten how large they could be, this one must have nine inches long and five wide, five high and weighed about three pounds, a big solid device. An appliance, really, almost the size and weight of a toaster, if you remember toasters. I put it on my desk where it mystified the twenty somethings. I put some of the colored pencils alongside and after showing them how to use it and they’d try it as I explained how high tech it once was. You’d stick a dull pencil in here—even the concept of a dulled pencil was unknown to them—the machine whirred and they’d pull out the pencil. Look at the beautifully sharpened point, I said. It was too, just lovely, the sharpener performed its task perfectly. I couldn’t help but be impressed with the transformation from dull to a perfect point. They not so much. Those were analog days, I said. I could see the pity in their eyes, and they left me alone with my memories.