I was in the gift shop of a small art gallery the other day when I bought a postcard depicting a bunch of different keys. The postcard turned out to be a reproduction from the six-volume dictionary and encyclopedia Larousse du XXe siècle (me neither) and the keys come in a gorgeous range of shapes and sizes. The Roman key is broad and boot-shaped. The Merovingian looks like part of a crank.
My great aunt lived to be 102, and when she was dying she revealed that she had been married not five times but six. We have no idea who the sixth husband was or where he fit into the Aunt Mickey timeline. I have to assume we'll never know.
Out in space there are objects that orbit one another for so long, and at such a stately pace, that when they both eventually arrive at the same point, they don't collide with some kind of awful explosion. Instead, they just touch. They graze. They fuse. It's all very gentle. And then, over time, the two objects become one.
When I look back on most consoles, I'm largely looking back at the games. The PS3 is LittleBigPlanet and Metal Gear 4, as far as I'm concerned, and even the GameCube, that squat, characterful delight, is largely hidden behind Mario Sunshine, Wind-Waker and Animal Crossing. (Even just typing that: cor, what a time that was.)