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Think back to those days—record the sounds of all of those gone through stacks of records we danced to in my long, living-room before venturing upstairs to lie upon the mattress of light sounds and dizzy afternoon’s. You had your favorites and me, mine and we’d take one from the sleeve, try to hold the collage of us in an epiphany of better than the last—a looping and meandering song of our souls on rock and roll.
The last time I went to your house, not to see you, but to drop off the culling of the record collection, those that were your additions to my stack that brought back too many arguments after the listening’s were placed in a sturdy whiskey box despite your being a dry-drunk. I scotch-taped an Easter postcard depicting three white crosses, wrote on the back in black, slick ink, FOR: DJ Dollarbin.
Last weekend, I had to fight the urge to call after listening to your late night radio broadcast, one in which you played several of the given back records. Meeting on the airwaves, you commenting that there was an astral disc jockey helping you select the songs and I knew that angel was me, but you never dedicated one song, tied me to you on-air in name.