Oh, this image makes me ache in the same way that the ones in this post do. It's not the Dakota thing (there are other words and wordlessness for that), but that he's listening to 45s. As in, not 33s. And as in, just like you might have done.
Each perfect, contained, knowable. Yet infinite with a spin on it. (The exception: My 45 collection, which includes such stunners as "Convoy" and "The Little Space Girl." Tho' the latter may be the B side.)
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