Redundant, the position we are inclined to find ourselves located more and more towards the climax of a previously busy and vital existence. There is no fault in becoming replaceable by a myriad of newer and shinier things, all products, and manufacturers tarnish in the fullness of time, and even the most superb cleaning agent cannot remove all the traces of well-deserved wear and tear that the years engrave quite heavily upon the surfaces.
An air of contentment should come with the superfluity, a self-administered pat upon the back for keeping nose on grindstone, gait within pathway, attention to every particular momentary task at hand, a kind of cumulative row of medals for a job well done, a mission accomplished. A prize awarded by the powers that ever be in overall charge of life, the universe, everything, whomever those magical, mysterious creators might be. Always assuming they are still remotely interested or entertained by the shenanigans continuing within their early construction.