Of the thousands of Devos, it was not so difficult to pick the ones that would make music.

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There were at this time the castle-dwelling Devos, the confrontational Devos, the hundreds of philosophical Devos, and (up the stairs and to your right) the non-quiet Devos.

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Terrible news was when some not-insignificant portion of Devos (the Cornish hen Devos, the table-setting Devos, the world-weary Devos) would at once disappear, Atlantis-like. Also terrible was when you listened to the non-quiet Devos in your bedroom in eighth grade and your Dad said this was absurd, you’d never keep listening to them, and then, three years later, you never did keep listening to them.

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The Devos arrived before the cell phone, the single-sourced American chocolate bar, and the time-traveler Kevlar suit, but, nevertheless, they were from and of the future. Unstable combinations of Devos that were quick to disappear included cowboy Devos and hand-mopping Devos.

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Some nights, at 3 am, try waking up suddenly, as if throwing a switch. The moon flooding the room, the small hum of the streetlight, the exhaustion of the day ahead, and the day ahead of that. There, in the corner—is it Ghost Devo? Is it Child Devo? Is it Limitless Devo? We shall mourn them all.