He was the sort of man who would buy a Martian Schoolgirls single simply to separate his alphabetically-arranged collections of Martha and the Vandellas and the Marvelettes, which had a tendency to miscegenate enthusiastically when juxtaposed.
Autumn afternoon, overcast, last hour before sundown. Cold air softening all colours, lights coming on on near and distant rises, bluesilver and sodiumgold, the walls of factories and houses Cezanne-blocking the shape of the hill in pastels of plaster and old brick, muted;
'You always worry that they’re going to leave you for someone with a bigger record collection. '
Molly sighed. Not an inward or modest exhalation, but a gust of disgust that rippled the papers on the desk, set the wind chimes to tinkling and incidentally knocked a passing bluebottle out of its buzzing torporous orbit to spin and right itself again on another course entirely. This it followed with a droning indifference that discomfited Molly further.
‘The root passion of rock and roll is the yearning and hunger for the joy that comes only with a first time. It always sounds simply thrilling and affirmative to the young, who are still running the gamut of new experiences, and increasingly elegiacal to those whose youthful fires are flickering.’
His words wreathed upwards in curlicues of smoke, tracing baroque lines in blue and gray in the eddies of their combined and communal breathing, the frenzies of insects, and the odd ripple conjured chaotically from a hurricane half a world away.
You remember what it’s like being a teenager, and having to deal with hot shame and embarrassment on a daily basis?
‘I’m tired and hungry, and on the verge of being exhausted and ravenous. I’m also fucking angry. For fuck’s sake make me a fucking sandwich.
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